


The Adventures of Lady Mischief

by artificial_ink



Category: Captain America (Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: All the misunderstandings, Alternate Universe - Regency, But I am incapable of writing things without plot, F/M, Girls just want to have anonymous fun, Regency Romance, Secret Identity Fail, This was supposed to be a PWP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2020-11-15 03:22:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20859410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artificial_ink/pseuds/artificial_ink
Summary: Lord Brock Rumlow is bet 20 guineas, his best horse and a bottle of fine brandy, for the successful seduction of the mysterious Lady M. The lord must seduce Lady M with his charms and manly affections rather than pricey baubles.Given that Brock has never met the woman, to his knowledge, he best approach this ridiculous affair with caution.





	1. A Gentlemen's Agreement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I'm writing a Regency AU now. Not sure how that happened. But it's happening. I hope you guys can forgive the potential for slight OOC since it's been interesting trying to make things work in this time period in a way that matches the essence of the characters.  
Even though Brock should have a British accent, I still sometimes imagine him with his New Yorker one 😅 Let's just take this ridiculous journey together, shall we?

** _Excerpts from the Betting Books of Brooks’s_**

_Colonel Armstrong bets Lord Yarmouth 50 guineas, that a certain elderly person understood between them, will be alive on this day two months._

_25 February, 1814._  
_T. Armstrong.  
_ _Yarmouth._

_Mr. Raikes bets Sir Joseph Copley 10 guineas that he does not play at cards or dice at any Club in London in a year from this date._

_12 March, 1814_  
_L.Raikes.   
_ _J.Copley_

_Colonel Cook wagers Sir J. Copley 20 guineas, that Lord Stewart is married within six months from this day._

_19 March, 1814._  
_H. Cooke.  
_ _J. Copley_

_Mr. Mills bets Lt. General Mackenzie a pony, that Lord Stewart goes to Vienna before he marries Lady Frances Vane._

_28 March, 1814_  
_A. Mackenzie  
_ _John Mills_

_Mr. Methuen bets Colonel Stanhope 10 guineas to 1, that a certain worthy Baronet understood between them does not of necessity part with his gold ice-pails, before this day twelvemonth; the ice-pails being found at a pawnbroker’s, will not entitle Colonel Stanhope to receive his 10 guineas._

_30 March, 1814_  
_H.F.R. Stanhope  
_ _Paul Methuen._

_Lord Sefton bets Lord Rumlow 20 guineas, the losing lordship’s best horse and a bottle of fine brandy, for the successful seduction of Lady M. Whichever winning aforementioned lordship must fuck Lady M by June this year. The lords must seduce the lady with their charms and manly affections rather than pricey baubles._

_3 April, 1814_  
_E.Sefton  
_ _B.Rumlow_

* * *

Lord Brock Rumlow, The Earl of Malton, relaxed into the leather chair as the first sip of brandy warmed his throat. The last two weeks had been rather taxing. He’d been unable to find a moment’s peace since returning to the Ton. A part of him wished to be back on the frontlines in France. He didn’t care if it were as a foot solider or as a spy gaining intelligence on the French. Facing the barrel of a gun was significantly more relaxing than facing the marriage minded mamas of the upper class. One of them being his own traitorous mother.

Brock would have thought the terrible scarring to his face would frighten the young virgins off but they were more than happy to keep their grimaces to a minimum if it meant getting their hands on his title and fortune. Besides, he was technically a war hero now. That seemed enough of a deterrent to keep the pitying discussions about his face to mostly behind his back. Occasionally, the brave (or dumb) would ask him questions about the incident or the current state of his healing and deformity. His sister, Rosalba, insisted that the scaring wasn’t half as bad as anyone was making it out to be, but given that the Rumlows were a vain sort, it still smarted when he caught his reflection or felt the stretch of scars on a rare smile.

Now, sitting in a corner at Brooks’s and sipping a brandy, Brock felt his muscles ease somewhat. While Brock wasn’t much of a gambler, he still enjoyed a night out at the gentlemen’s club. He did have some friends that were members, who didn’t get on his nerves, that he wouldn’t mind catching up with. Though, he certainly wasn’t fostering conversation at the moment, with his back to the rest of the room. Marius, his younger brother, sat with a clear view of the goings on and would hopefully offer services as a look out until Brock could at least finish two glasses of brandy before talking to anyone.

“Now here’s a sight! The Disfigured Earl of Malton hiding away in a corner,” said a nasally voice and Brock let out a long sigh. Clearly, this would not be a night of relaxation. He should have gone to White’s. It had been in vain hope that he would be left alone because everyone would be so focused on gambling away their fortunes.

“Lord Sefton, I’m surprised to see you here. Normally, you can’t be pulled away from the tables,” Marius said smoothly as Richard Sefton sat in the empty seat next to Brock. Sefton let out a loud, mucus-laden sniff and Brock bit back a grimace of disgust. He could see a frown tug at the corners of Marius’s mouth.

“Couldn’t miss the chance to catch up with this blighter, here,” Sefton chuckled as he waved over a servant to bring a bottle of brandy then slapped Brock on the shoulder. “When I heard your pretty face was scratched up, I bet Lord Mullen 10 guineas that you wouldn’t leave your country home 'til you were in a coffin.”

“Sorry to have cost you,” Brock said, holding back a sneer. He took a large gulp of his brandy. Sefton had always been jealous of Brock, even when they were in school. Brock was more handsome, more charming, better at whist and tended to snag all the mistresses Sefton had his eye on. It wasn’t that Brock looked to foster competition with the man, it was just that it naturally happened that way. Brock seemed to always get in the way of whatever Sefton wanted.

“So, having any trouble finding yourself a new mistress? I hear the women find you absolutely gruesome now,” Sefton said with glee, leaning forward so that Brock got a whiff of the stale stench on the man’s breath.

“I suppose I am technically in the market for a mistress,” Brock admitted, tilting away from the smell. “Though, I’ve had about enough of women for the time being, given that all the mothers in London are hunting me down to ensnare me into marrying their daughters. All talking my ear off about their angelic attributes. It’s the price to pay for being a war hero.” Brock enjoyed the way that Sefton’s face soured as he snapped back into his chair. Normally, Brock didn’t seek to brag about his time serving the King but he also didn’t mind throwing it at layabout lords getting on his nerves. Brock had never been one to enjoy a life of leisure, even if it were expected of him. At the very least, he needed engaging hobbies. It was a trait shared between the Rumlows and of his mother’s family, the Bragadins. His brother, Marius, was a doctor. His sisters had their own educational pursuits and if it weren’t for society’s negative opinions on women, would have been well respected in various fields.

So, it shouldn’t have been much of a surprise that against his parent’s wishes, he joined the navy, despite being a first-born son. He worked his way up the ranks and discovered he had a particular knack for espionage. Which was what he’d been doing for the past 7 years and most of the details were not to be shared with anyone but his commanding officers. Due to Brock’s Venetian heritage on his mother’s side, he spent most of his time in the various territories of the boot, feigning support for Napoleon and rousing the rebels. Upon his eventual return, he had some difficulty convincing a few peers of his loyalty to Great Britain. Though their stubborn hatred of Brock probably had more to do with their own aims of political gain. Even if time away truly did have Brock reconsidering his loyalties. Yet, that had to do more with his current view on war. It struck him at some point that the common man had the least connection to the powerful men who sought to grab as much power as they could. Yet, the common man often suffered the most. At times, he wondered who was really worse: Prinny or Boney? Of course, he could never voice those opinions. To do so was treason. At the end of the day, his face now bore the proof of his loyalties. Brock saved good men, no matter the crown that commanded him.

The scars on his face were sustained due to a rescue mission of his fellow spy and good friend, Jack Rollins. There were also quite a few English officers and soldiers rescued. He’d won awards and supposedly a Dukedom was in consideration. Not that he cared much for those commendations. The scars were worth it though, to see his good friend safe and home again. Instead of the public finding out about a rather foolhardy escape Brock orchestrated to pull Jack from the hellhole of a prison he’d been stuck in, a different story had been created. One that still painted Brock as a man brave in battle, so that he could easily ‘retire’ back into the life of an Earl. His commanding officers wanted Brock to work from England now. Sussing out French spies at home and other protests that had been boiling amongst the British. It was not how he really imagined his life to turn out and Brock was certain his mother and father had something to do with the change of orders. Most men should find civilian life a relief. Except for Brock and he wondered if Jack could also be counted in that. 

Jack had come home to find that his stepfather and mother were both dead and his stepsister’s affairs had been conducted horribly by a distant cousin who did not see fit to provide for her but did try to steal her dowry via a botched forced elopement at Gretna Green. He and Jack discussed matters quite a bit over the last few months, as Brock healed and Jack tried to make sense of his altered life. Luckily, Jack’s stepsister, Darcy, found ways to support herself and had dear friends who assisted. She’d not fallen entirely destitute but she’d clearly not had an easy path. She also fell into a crowd that Jack wasn’t sure he entirely approved of.Obstinate bluestockings and Gaming Hell owners. Both Jack and Brock could not deny the motely crew had been much more supportive than her cousin proved to be. Brock knew he should disapprove but he could also attest to the fact that sometimes those with less or with societies’ distain, tended to offer the most when an individual truly needed.

Brock hadn’t the courage to call on Jack at his home, where Darcy once again resided. He was afraid for her to see his face now. When she was a beautiful ingénue, making her debut into society, Brock may have held a bit of a flame for her. But she was young, the dear sister of a friend and he was trying to sever ties with his own scandalous betrothed. All big enough deterrents on their own to prevent Brock from courting her. So, he buried his emotions, held his tongue when she got engaged to an idiot, jumped at new orders to fight Napoleon’s troops on land and tried to forget about her. Brock fully expected to come back and hear that she had at least three tots with her husband.

To his surprise, Jack had complained about a fiancé slighting Darcy in a letter and telling her he’d married someone else while away, even though she’d been patiently waiting on him for years. How any man could lead Darcy on, especially with the promise of a wedding night, was beyond Brock’s comprehension. But Brock wasn’t any better. He’d never made any interest known during his acquaintance of Darcy Lewis. He also wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of watching her pretty face twist in disgust when she beheld his marred face. She never seemed to like him much, anyway. Their conversations had always been rather silted for his liking but that never seemed to stop him from wondering on cold, lonely nights, what might have happened if he’d ever had the courage to admit his feelings to her. Alas, that would never happen. So, he asked his sisters, Cosima and Rosalba, of any updates on Darcy, since they were well acquainted with her from the Bluestocking meetings they attended. They’d grown suspicious of late over Brock’s questions and so he’d stopped asking.

“Do you really think you’ll be able to convince Lady M to become your mistress? She doesn’t seem the type to fall into that sort of thing,” Marius said, voice a little loud at the incredulousness of whatever the conversation had fallen into when Brock was wool gathering. “Many a man has claimed to engage in carnal pleasures with her and she has burnt them all with unflattering tales from their actual past mistresses.”

“I am different. She can’t get enough of me. Of course, it’s been our little game to withhold ourselves for now. I do quite like the chase. Makes everything so much more…satisfying, once you catch the hare,” said Sefton and Brock rolled his eyes at the man’s insinuation. Sefton was not one for self-denial. He had the impulse of a starving man looking at a banquet.

“Lady M is infamous now for refusing a gentleman’s attention if it were anything other than harmless flirting. What makes you different?” Marius asked, leaning back in his chair and taking a long sip of port. The narrowed gaze and slightly quirked lips were a clear challenge. This was not the first time ‘Lady M’ had been mentioned in passing to Brock. There were snippets of her, here and there. Occasionally, he read something written by her in the gossip rags and magazines his sisters left about. His sisters obviously enjoyed the woman’s scandalous articles and gossiped escapades as she subtly suggested women deserved more respect and rights.

“What makes me different is that no woman can resist me,” Sefton said proudly, puffing out his chest. Brock could not stop the loud snort he let out. It darkened Sefton’s face. Again, Brock never sought to issue a challenge towards the man. Sefton simply said the most ridiculous things and Brock reacted accordingly. “Care to make a wager on your irresistible charms? Hmm? With your scars, I daresay it may be more difficult for you to find a woman willing to close her eyes if you don’t bribe her first.”

“Even with my scars, women fall at my feet,” Brock insisted, even if the falling was now because they swooned at the gruesome nature of his scars. Not so much anymore because he was so handsome they found they couldn’t take enough air. Still, he felt between the choice of him and Sefton, a rational woman would choose him. He hoped. The rationality of Lady M had yet to be tested by him.

“Then let us make it official. I shall put it in the betting books. The first one to seduce Lady M into the bedroom, wins. Say…20 guineas?” Sefton offered.

“That’s tame,” Brock said before he could really think over his words. He _did_ have a bit of a competitive streak. Although he didn’t wish to pursue this ridiculous agreement over a woman he’d never even seen, he couldn’t quite help himself. From the corner of his eyes, he could see Marius shaking his head in exasperation. The man was horribly moral at times and did not approve of betting over people’s lives. 

Sefton took a long sip of brandy and watched Brook with narrowed eyes. “Then what do you suggest?”

“In addition to 20 guineas, how about a fine bottle of brandy?” Brock put forth. He certainly felt that Sefton owed him a bottle that Brock could enjoy in peace and quiet.

“The guineas, brandy and your prized horse. You know the one. I’ve seen you riding about on the chestnut beast. If I lose, you can have my Thoroughbred. Won him last month and he’s fast as lightning in a race,” Sefton put forward and this time, Brock paused. His horse, Alfonso, was quite the steed. There were only two things of importance Brock had successfully brought back from the continent: his warhorse and a manservant named Emil. Neither had been easy. The horse was a prized, pure Arabian stud he’d received as a gift during time in Veneto and was surely one of the finest in England. Clearly, Sefton knew this. Brock could see the man practically slobbering at the mouth. 

“I best learn a bit more about this woman before we agree. Hardly want to set upon seducing a woman I find disagreeable. What does she look like?” Brock asked. While he’d been getting snippets about her, there never seemed to be anyone capable of really explaining anything of substance about her.

“No one really knows. Always wearing a mask or veil,” Marius chipped in. At that, Brock frowned. Surely, someone had actually seen her face. At the furrow of his brow, Sefton explained.

“She’s built an aura of mystery about her. Refuses to give her real name or show her entire face. No one knows quite what she looks like, though that’s not important in a woman,” Sefton cupped imaginary breasts and pretended to jiggle them as if they were hefty weights. “Can always take her from behind. Doesn’t matter what the chit looks like, if she’s got the body luscious enough to make you forget.”

“Ever the romantic,” Brock said flatly.

“She’s asking for it,” shrugged Sefton. “Going about and selling secrets as she does. A mask can only protect you for so long. She’s going to get what’s coming.”

“And you think what’s coming to her is your cock? Punishment of the highest form, that is,” Brock said with a scoff. At the moment, he was leaning towards refusing this ridiculous bet.

“Look at you, being all high and mighty,” spat Sefton, gulping down his brandy and refilling the glass, sloshing some down the sides. “Has your time on the continent made you a priest? When was the last time you had a mistress? The knife to your pretty face must have addled your brains. I think you _need_ this bet to get your head back on straight.” 

“You _are_ on the market for a mistress,” Marius said, pursing his lips in order to hide a grin. He could tell Brock was beginning to see how ridiculous this whole affair was. Also that Sefton was emotionally involved for some unknown reason. Perhaps she’d already slighted him and he felt the need for revenge. “Either Lady M or your wayward fiancée. She’s practically a widow again and I hear is looking for another man to satisfy her needs. I think she even asked about you.”

“Save me the details,” mumbled Brock, taking another gulp of his brandy. It finished off the glass and he refilled it from Sefton’s decanter before the man could object. The woman who had very much almost become the next Countess of Malton and future Marchioness of Rockingham, proved to have been unable to wait until the wedding before bandying about her imagined power and status. She also bedded quite a few peers right after their betrothal announcement and had not been subtle about it. Cynthia proved to be a terrible choice of a wife. Spoiled, childish and morally corrupt were a few of her better qualities. She thought luring Brock into bed before the wedding would make him feel obligated despite her follies. His mother had been supportive of Brock’s decision to call off the wedding despite impending scandal. Father, not so much at first, since it was a rather good match politically and she came with a hefty price tag.

Still, Brock did not want a wife who would make him wonder if his heir truly was his. Cynthia demonstrated great talent in the bedroom but no amount of fellatio would make him turn a blind eye at her moral disregard in every other aspect of her life. Since Brock’s time in the military, Cynthia had 3 husbands who all died rather suddenly after their new wills had been made. Yes, they were old but it was too coincidental to be widowed thrice. Her fourth was quite ill now. Brock’s father finally agreed that the marriage would have been a disaster given her rather unlucky streak.

“Surely, a masked lady with a taste for innocent adventure is a better choice? Who knows, she may end up being the woman of all your fantasies,” Marius suggested with a twinkle in his eyes and Brock was hardly convinced. A Covent Garden whore was a better choice than Cynthia. It was a rather low bar. 

“Are you talking about Lady M?” Lord Alfred Hutton asked. He’d been walking by with a Colonel Quinton and they both looked sick with curiosity. With a huff, Brock greeted them. A larger audience to this ridiculous conversation would mean that he would feel more of an obligation to agree. Often times, verbal wagers become more elaborate when a larger crowd got involved.

“What does the M stand for?” Brock asked. If he was making her his mistress, it was only polite to know her name. 

“Lady Massive Tits, I believe,” said Sefton, snickering at a joke no one else found amusing.

“Lady Mischief,” Colonel Quinton offered. Brock rose an eyebrow. He supposed it wasn’t far off if her escapades were to be believed. She sounded a bit like a hellion. Perhaps after his time in war, he should just find himself a boring little wife.

“She’s often seen around that Loki fellow- the one that owns a Gambling Hell. He’s deuced successful. He calls her his Sister in Mayhem after she wrote an article about a night at the Hells. Made the man look like a saint been wronged. There’s wagers on if she’s his mistress or his actual sister,” Marius explained.

“She’s a noblewoman, of that I’m sure. Or at the very least, a woman of genteel background,” Colonel Quinton said. “Why else would she go about wearing that mask if she doesn’t want anyone to know who she is? Probably married to a peer and secretly has an army of lovers.”

“It’s ‘cause of the articles!” Hutton insisted, voice rising and garnering some stares around the room. Brock truly hoped this didn’t turn into an affair that the entire club wished to put their 2 shillings into. “She can’t go learning everyone’s secrets and scampering about London on wild adventures if everyone knew who she was. It’d draw crowds.”

“She’s probably some common trollop, lads. The bet should be who will be the first to contract the Covent Garden ague,” Marius said with the quirk of his lips.

“No, I chatted with her at Loki’s Hellfire Club last week,” Hutton said with the shake of his head and the conviction of a man willing to die on that hill. “Sounded educated and like a proper lady. Quite charming and sweet. Witty and funny, too,” Lord Hutton sighed for a moment, looking off into the distance. From the dreamy stare, Brock wondered if Lord Hutton wasn’t already half in love with Lady M. His curiosity over who this woman was increased and he decided that if Hutton liked her, then perhaps she wasn’t a complete wanton. Hutton had a soft spot for sweet, angelic types. “She’s also turning down every man that offers or begs for funny business. Loyal to Loki or whoever her secret husband is, even if she’s socializing with a rough sort. And the way she acts towards servants and urchins, show a kind nature about her. No, I insist you ignore whatever drivel Sefton here has been insisting about her.”

“Clearly, Hutton has been seduced by the viper but does not have it in him to try and act,” Sefton said, lips twisting into an ugly scowl. He continued before Hutton could insist otherwise. “I’m getting tired hearing all you soft blunderbusses harp on about her like she’s worth a damn. Clearly, her tits have you befogged. She’s clearly a harlot who’s playing dress up. Which is why I plan to de-mask and de-robe Lady M. Only a man of true quality and sexual prowess will successfully lead the whore to his bedroom. And if she’s not that talented, then I’ll fuck her till I’m satisfied and win the bet, either way.”

“With sweet words like that, I don’t see how she will ever refuse you,” Brock said dryly. It was obvious that Sefton’s intent was anything but noble. Whether Lady M was a common trollop or a noblewoman wishing to eschew the yoke of society, no woman deserved to be a pawn in Sefton’s bleak game of life. The man had no true respect for anyone ranking below him or had any real shred of decency. Besides, Brock was quite fond of Alfonso, who’d gotten him out of quite a few bloody, tight spots. He was a fine war beast- loyal, brave and intuitive. All qualities that Lord Sefton did not possess and would not know what to do with if they bit him on the ass.

If Brock were to enter this bet, he wanted to make sure he could win it. He would not have normally doubted himself but now his face was disfigured and his thoughts still rather consumed with the war. Besides, Sefton had an advantage because he knew more about Lady M. Possibly even met her once or twice. For all Brock knew, Sefton was already fucking the woman and this was just an elaborate ploy to steal Alfonso.

“So, Rumlow? What do you say? The first man to fuck Lady M wins? 20 guineas, brandy and a horse. Most mistresses would cost you more in diamonds. It’s just economical.” Holding out his hand, Sefton had the tiniest look of satisfaction and Brock didn’t trust the man whatsoever.

“I say men, that’s rather bad form. Betting over defiling such a sweet woman,” berated Hutton with a deep frown, crossing his arms in the manner of a petulant child. Sefton sent the man a side-eyed glare.

“Brock, if you’re going to agree to this ridiculous farce, the two of you better decide on some rules,” Marius suggested. “It seems only fair the two of you only use your masculine wiles. No fancy gifts to sway her affections.”

“Lady M wouldn’t be swayed by diamonds and pearls,” Hutton said haughtily.

“I agree with the younger Lord Rumlow,” said Colonel Quinten, who looked more interested in the bet than Hutton, as he had no qualms over Lady M’s seduction. “And you should set a date or event that marks the beginning of your attempts. Wouldn’t do if one of you already planned to run into her before the other even has a chance to get his footing.”

“That seems fair, given I’ve never seen her, with or without the mask,” Brock agreed and from the sour glare Sefton sent Quinton, his lordship seemed very much hoping such deception would aid him in getting a step up.

“How about Lady Bartholomew’s Masquerade ball?” Marius suggested far too innocently for Brock’s liking. His brother clearly knew something more and since Marius didn’t actually approve of this, he’d happily never answer Brock’s questions. Preferring to laugh upon Brock’s folly in such a farce. “I heard she received an invite and agreed to attend. Lady Bartholomew has been rather pleased at having such a scandalous woman in attendance.”

“That’s true,” Hutton agreed with reluctance. “Lady M told me she’d intended to go. Said she may or may not have wings on her costume.”

“Well, if I’ve never met the woman, how the hell am I supposed to find her in a room of costumes?” asked Brock, voice rising despite his wanting to keep all this hushed before he made a decision. Marius was snickering at the growing ridiculousness of this scenario. Lady Bartholomew was a widow of prolific reputation. She’d spent her widowed days (and possibly some married nights) in the arms of numerous young men and hosted the most scandalous and private events that fostered lovers’ trysts. When Brock had received an invite and asked Marius about it, his younger brother had laughed before explaining the sordid affair. It had become rather popular in the past few years amongst those invited. Simply put, it was an excuse for debauchery and sex. Normally, Brock wouldn’t mind going, especially if he had the option to hide his face. He…actually planned on attending and had a costume in mind. Now though, he regretted ever leaving the comfort and solitude of his country estate. 

“Hutton, you think you could spot Lady M in a crowded room? She’s pretty much in costume most of the time, anyway,” Marius asked, causing Hutton to stand up tall with pride.

“I must certainly could. Even in a room of costumed degenerates, I would be able to find her,” Hutton said in utter confidence.

“There you go,” smiled Marius. “Bring Hutton with you and he can point her out to both of you. Anyone here who doesn’t have an invite could get one if we tell Lady Bartholomew of this scheme. She does love immoral games.”

“Hutton, you best not warn the chit,” Sefton threatened, malice in his voice as he began to rise threateningly from his chair.

“Why would it matter? I thought she was practically falling into your lap?” Brock challenged. When Sefton faltered, Brock knew the man had done nothing so far to garner any favour with Lady M.

“While I do not approve of this determined abuse of Lady M…I wouldn’t mind an invite to Lady Bartholomew’s masquerade ball. It’s rather hard to get in without an invitation,” said Hutton with a small shrug. Clearly, if he couldn’t win Lady M’s affections, he’d make do with someone else. The man had sense.

“We both attempt to woo her beginning with Hutton’s identification of the Lady. If neither one of us can convince her by June, then the bet is off. I’m not wasting my summer chasing some chit when I could be in the countryside. No physical force or violence. It must only be our charms and wit. No gifts, trinkets or jewels before the act in an attempt to sway her decision. Though if I find I quite like her and want to keep her on as a mistress, I’ll shower her in presents,” Brock offered as he ticked off his fingers, grinning at the distaste on Sefton’s face. If Brock liked the woman, then he might as well keep her on as a mistress for the time being. And if, in the more likely scenario, when he told her what Sefton was up to and she baulked, then neither of them of would win. Brock would keep his horse, hopefully get on with his life and Sefton would continue to be an irritating fool. All would be right with the world. 

“How will you know if one of you have done the deed?” Quinton asked and Brock sighed. He was truly hoping he could just get away with angering Lady M enough that she just wrote terrible things about Sefton in the papers.

“None of you are watching,” Brock warned swiftly because he knew that was going to be the suggestion on Sefton’s tongue.”

“Then how the hell do you suggest we prove it? Blood on wedding sheets?” Sefton mocked, sliding down in his chair and crossing his arms.

“By presenting one of her masks?” Quinton suggested.

“No, anyone can steal a mask or trinket from her. And insisting you know her identity will likely be met with disbelief,” Marius shook his head, rubbing a thumb along his jawline as he thought. Once he came up with an acceptable idea, he snapped his fingers. “Whenever one of you insists you won, we’ll all see how she reacts to you during one of her jaunts at the Hellfire. If she lets you kiss her cheek and doesn’t slap you, then we know you’ve won her affections.”

“The only man she lets even kiss her hand is Loki,” admitted Hutton, nodding in agreement that although it was elaborate, it was the best they could come up with at the time.

“That’s ridiculous,” Sefton said with a huff. “Anyone can kiss the trollop on the cheek. I know of some apartments I can house her in with peepholes.”

“Let us keep it simple. And somewhat above board. One of you can sit near her at the Hellfire. Close enough to listen in on a conversation,” Brock said, wanting this evening to end soon. “The winner will join her. Clearly state intentions for another assignation and even if she denies meeting again, she’ll admit to the first time. How about Quinten? He seems like an impartial judge.”

“Sounds like you blighters will have to make sure to impress her. No ham-fisted attempts once you’re in her skirts,” Quinton chuckled and slapped his knee. “I wish you men luck.”

“What do you say, Sefton?” Brock goaded, offering his hand to shake on the bet. For a long moment, Sefton looked like he regretted saying hello to Brock. Good. Served the cad right. Realizing he had no longer had much of a choice, Sefton grabbed Brock’s hand and they shook. Although Sefton tried to intimidate Brock with his grip, the hold hardly impressed him. Squeezing back, Brock watched the slight widening of Sefton’s eyes before letting go and leaning back into his chair. Out of the two of them, there would be no contest of who was the stronger man. Brock knew that. He just hoped that Sefton really hadn’t improved on his ability to woo a woman and that Lady M truly had the intelligence she suggested in her articles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The excerpts are actually mostly from the gentlemen's club White's betting book. Just some that amused me the most. The dates have been changed and of course, Brock's bet is not in the original betting books. Though there was a bet in Brooks's books that did have racy language like the bet Brock's been roped into.


	2. The Duty of a Viscount

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we got back further in time....a shorter but fluffier chapter. I felt we needed it to wash the filth of Lord Sefton off. 
> 
> Also, thank you for the comments and kudos! ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜🖤🐷🐶🐱

Northamptonshire, 1789

Although Jack Rollins tried to be the man his father had ordered him to be, he felt as if he failed miserably. He wondered if all the Viscount Purbecks before him were rolling in their graves at his inability to protect the honour bestowed upon them by the King. Try as he might, he never quite felt like a Viscount Purbeck; only Jack. Now, his mother was to marry some squire he’d only met twice. William Lewis did seem a nice sort, quite jolly and kind. But surely, if Jack had done the job his father tasked on his deathbed, his mother wouldn’t have felt the need to marry again. Three years ago, the late Viscount Purbeck told Jack to protect and look after his mother as well as uphold the family name. Now 11, Jack was more than capable of doing so. He did the best that he could but he wondered if he could have tried harder. Mother assured Jack that he would always be the most important man in her life but she wanted Jack to have a loving family.

Sod that. He and his mother were family enough.

Except, his mother laughed with William Lewis in a way he never remembered her doing with his father. Perhaps he should let the man marry his mother and only step in if things took a turn. His mother was always welcome in the Purbeck estate home if she no longer wished to stay here. The home that William lived in was quite small in comparison. Even if his mother said it was cosy, without a hint of sarcasm or snide tones. Still, it would be best to discuss this with his solicitor and make arrangements in case it all went bottoms up. No matter what, his mother would be cared for.

Sighing, Jack listened to his mother laugh at something William said. They were taking a stroll about the gardens before supper. Jack had found a stick and was swatting some bugs with it. He declined the offer to join his mother and William, feigning interest in the geese honking nearby. He knew that his mother sorely wanted Jack to like William but the way some of his fellow Eton students snickered at the fact that William was _only_ a squire, made him wonder if he should be wary.

“What are you doing?” asked a loud and inquisitive little voice. Jack turned around to find William Lewis’ 5-year-old daughter, Darcy. The little imp had been running around earlier but hadn’t been able to stop long enough for a proper introduction. Even if she didn’t seem to understand what he was doing (sulking, mostly), she found herself a stick and was trying to mimic the _swish_ he’d been able to produce. She wasn’t doing a very good job of it. If Jack weren’t so bothered by the situation of his life, he might have laughed at the very concentrated, scrunched look on her face. 

“Shouldn’t you be with your governess?” Jack asked, frowning and standing tall in what he hoped was a good imitation of his father’s portrait.

“What’s a governess?” Darcy asked, pausing in her jerking of the stick to quirk her head.

“It’s a lady who watches over you and teaches you things like reading, writing and being a good, marriageable lady,” explained Jack, almost smiling when Darcy’s face scrunched up even more.

“Oh. Cook says I should marry a coalminer with all the dirt I bring into the house,” Darcy said proudly with a smile, clearly not understanding the insult in the cook’s reprimands. “Cook watches over me when papa can’t. And papa teaches me letters and numbers. But I like playing with the animals more,” Darcy dropped the stick when a bird fluttered out of a tree. As her wide eyes followed the flying creature, Jack frowned. It sounded like William didn’t have enough money to hire a simple governess. And the staff he did have was on the impertinent side. That simply wouldn’t do. Jack’s mother deserved to live respected, in the lap of luxury, as she had her entire life. Or at least, the entirety of Jack’s life. He wasn’t much sure what she did before he was born.

“So, you like animals? What animal is your favourite?” asked Jack, deciding that perhaps the imp might be useful. If he befriended her, maybe she might tell him something about her father that would help Jack sway his mother against a marriage. When she looked back at him, he noticed a little drip of snot beginning to run down from her nose. Either she didn’t know or didn’t mind. Strangely enough, Jack felt the urge to take out his handkerchief and wipe it away. So, he did. Darcy offered a sweet, uninhibited smile.

“Doggies and kitties! But I also like piggies!” Darcy jumped up and down, making little snorting noises like a pig. This time, Jack did laugh. “I tried to bring one into the house but Cook got ever so upset. I didn’t get to eat tarts for an entire fortnight.”

“Pigs don’t belong in the house. They belong in their own pens. It’s their home. Would you like it if a pig tried to make you live in a pen?” Jack asked, his concerns over William being slightly forgotten. He wondered how far into the house Darcy was able to bring in a pig before anyone took notice. There hadn’t been much livestock around the house that he’d seen, other than some geese. Perhaps that was for good reason. An image of Darcy leading a pig down the road came to his mind and he very much believed the determined little girl had the wiles and cunning to do such a thing. Even if it were innocent cunning. Had Jack ever attempted anything like that, his father would have whipped him soundly. A lack of tarts sounds liked a rather wonderful punishment in comparison. 

“I don’t think I’d mind much. I like playing in the mud,” Darcy decided after a moment’s thought. “Maisie told me that one of the farmers has new kitties. I want to see but Cook says I can’t go on my own and everyone is so busy right now because of the grand supper they are making.”

“I believe I may be the reason for the supper,” Jack said in apology when Darcy pouted ever so preciously. “I am Viscount Purbeck. But you can call me Jack. My mother is the Dowager Viscountess, Lady Beatrice Rollins.”

“I like her. She’s pretty and kind and makes papa happy. They’re to be married,” Darcy chirped as if Jack had no idea of the arrangement.

“If they get married, it means I am to be your brother. How do you feel about that?”

“Are brothers anything like sisters? My friend Eliza has sisters and they fight all the time. She thinks they’re all horrid,” said Darcy, glossy eyes widening. She looked up at Jack with her bottom lip beginning to wobble. “They’re ever so mean to each other and pull each other’s hair and bite each other. Are brothers like that?”

“I can’t say I know much about what brothers and sisters are supposed to do,” Jack admitted, brow furrowing. That sounded rather barbaric. That surely wasn’t what all sisters did to each other? Did brothers do that as well? There were twins in his year and they sometimes punched each other but it was all in good fun. “But I promise that I’d do my best not to be horrid to you as long as you do the same for me. And I’ll never bite you.”

It took a moment for Darcy to consider the offer and Jack thought she was really giving it serious contemplation but then he noticed she was distracted by another bird. As she watched the bird flutter from branch to branch, she shrugged. “Okay.”

“If I go with you to see the kitties, I don’t think Cook will be too cross,” Jack offered and now, he had her full attention. A huge grin stretched her face and she practically buzzed with energy, her little hands clenched as she brought them up to her chin.

“Will you? Oh, brothers are so much better than sisters!” Darcy shouted, taking Jack’s hand and tugging him towards the direction of where he assumed the kittens lived. He let Darcy lead him on as she babbled about kittens and piglets. He also noticed his mother and William watching him with large smiles on their faces. Walking down the path with Darcy, Jack had to admit that for a 5-year-old, she was surprisingly entertaining. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind being a brother. Just for a little bit.


	3. A Gambling Hell Owner's Plea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos! ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜🖤

London, 1814

“Darling, I beg of you to reconsider. This is simply preposterous,” Loki said in a voice that almost sounded like he was pleading. Which, for him, was practically begging on bended knee. He sat on a Louis XIV armchair in the sitting room of Jack’s London residence, leaning back with his legs stretched out in front of him. Darcy sat across from him on a matching settee next to her maid, Adele. The half French, half English maid was supposed to be acting as a chaperone but truth be told, she was only passable as a maid and completely inept as a chaperone.

“It’s not preposterous,” Darcy insisted, petting her pug, Mr. Boothby, who lay snoring in her lap. The silly little creature had been a gift from her ex-fiancé and she’d named it after him as a joke. She’d been trying to get the pug to answer to a different name but to no avail. “In fact, it makes perfect, logical sense.”

“When you said you were going to try the concept of free love, I had hoped it would be with a man who was not so…plain,” Adele said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. Loki nodded in agreement.

“I cannot believe that is the thing the two of you are most concerned about,” Darcy huffed. This had been an argument between the three of them for the past fortnight. “If I am going to consider a loveless marriage, I should live a bit more.”

“Living a bit more is playing whist at the Hellfire. Seducing Hutton, of all men, is a disappointment,” Loki said, hooking his ankle above the other, audible sigh showing just how disappointed he truly was. Darcy fought the urge to roll her eyes. “At least, find a man who will actually make you reconsider a loveless marriage. Hutton will make you run towards it.”

“You need a man to make your toes curl. Hutton is not that man,” Adele nodded in agreement.

“Well, there isn’t a man in London who makes my toes curl. So, I think that’s a rather moot point,” Darcy said with a slight pout. There’d only been one man who may have ignited some silly emotion even close to ‘toe curling’ but alas, he was certainly not an option. He likely never saw her as anything more than Jack’s pest of a stepsister. On her lap, Mr. Boothby let out a sigh and Darcy scratched behind his ear.

“It will be your first time. Since you have a choice in the matter, you should make it perfect,” Adele said, leaning in with eagerness. It was a sentiment that Darcy agreed with. Her wanting to take ownership of her life had led her to take up the secret identity of Lady M. Thus, began a journey to experience all that society banned her from as a spinster of little consequence.

“If I wanted it to be perfect, I wouldn’t be trying to plan an assignation at Lady Bartholomew’s Blasphemous Ball for London Degenerate Dandies,” Darcy pointed out, causing both Adele and Loki to snort out laughs.

“Don’t let her hear you call it that. She’ll rescind her invitation,” Loki said with a smirk. “She feels it a rather classy affair. I hear the décor is supposed to be reminiscent of a Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

“Will she be dressing up complete with an ass’s head or is that reserved for one of her many lovers?” Darcy shot back. While she didn’t want to insult another woman for her choice in romantic lifestyle (she was _technically_ trying to experience a fraction of what Lady Bartholomew did in the boudoir), Darcy didn’t want to label this anymore than it was. Lady Bartholomew threw a rather bawdy masquerade ball, 5 years running now. While invitations were much sought after, it wasn’t as if she were attending an Almack’s event. It was a place where like-minded people in society could rut without the pretence that they knew or cared who they were rutting with. And that’s all Darcy wanted to do. She wanted to try out rutting in case she decided upon a rather loveless marriage as a means to access her currently untouchable trust.

“Fairly certain she plans on being a most magnificent Tatiana. So, make sure your fairy costume does not outmatch hers,” Loki warned, though there wasn’t much foreboding in it. “The role of the ass has yet to be decided upon but I beg you, darling, don’t let Hutton be your ass.”

“Who else do I have as an option?” Darcy asked, feeling her throat begin to tighten up. She’d never had the most romantic of encounters with men. Very few had even wanted to dance with her when she came out in society. The ones that did were followed by cruel betrotheds or mistresses warning Darcy to stay away. Although she was Jack’s stepsister and he was a Viscount, the title and blood weren’t hers. The _ton_ cruelly snubbed her, many gossiped behind her back but within earshot, women angrily threatened her away from men she had no intentions for. It had all been painful for a girl who was once so hopeful and affectionate. Ian Boothby, the third son to a baronet, was the only man who had shown interest but he’d never encouraged anything in Darcy other than warm affection. Now that she was 29 and spinsterhood had reared its ugly head, Darcy found she no longer held much stock in romance.

Sense, as Jane liked to say, would help you find happiness. Sensibility would lead you to Gretna Green and love did not ward off collectors. Darcy strove for sense. It was why she was sincerely considering a marriage to a Mr. Hugh. The kind widower occasionally attended the Learned Ladies Of London group she and Jane organised. It was an open meeting where mostly women explored knowledge and discussed important topics of the day. They would occasionally get a man who liked to argue but Mr. Hugh’s wife had been a proponent of many of the things their group advocated. Such as women’s rights to education and financial stability. Although in his heart he was still mourning her death from almost 2 years ago, he felt it was important for him to have a female figure for his children. All 9 of them.

He came to Darcy with a business proposal. She helped raise his children into intelligent and respectful adults. In return, he would never request any husbandly rights, she would be free to live her own life so long as it was not detrimental to the children and she was allowed to have all the money in her trusted dowry. Her father had left her money on the strict terms that she had to be married before it could be accessed. It would be enough to set her up in a comfortable, if somewhat frugal life. With the occasional money she made on her writing, it would be more than enough for her.

But even though it was an offer some women could only dream of, she still wasn’t sure. She wanted to dip her toes in the waters of pleasure just once before she could give Mr. Hugh her final decision. Especially after Learned Ladies member Miss Wentz’s passionate explanation of free love. According to her, both men and women of reasonable age should be allowed equal right to consensual pleasure and affections. Darcy’s curiosity had been piqued indeed. Jane also suggested _the act_ could be quite nice if the man were apt at it. In fact, a few of the married ladies on occasion stayed after meetings and giggled over their husband’s bed habits when not discussing woes of matrimony. At the end of the day, Darcy was quite curious and wanted to experience the act. If only for scientific purposes, of course. So many made the act sound fun but surely it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Darcy worried she’d missed her chance and that the moon was waning on the opportunity. Surely, her virtue would grow dusty and decrepit on the shelf if she didn’t take matters into her own hands. That meant she needed to seize the right man before he completely disappeared. It wouldn’t do for Mr. Hugh to be cuckolded by Darcy when he offered such a generous agreement. She might as well try the act first, then decide whether one could live without. 

“There are many handsome men who would love to have relations with you,” Adele said and this time, Darcy couldn’t hold back a sharp, short laugh. This sincerely was a preposterous conversation. She was just glad Jack was sitting in his office. He’d absolutely have a cow if he’d knew what she was up to. Although he assured Darcy she would not ever again be in dire straits, she knew he was on the fence with Mr. Hugh’s proposal. It was a good offer but Jack worried she was settling. Everyone who’s opinion she valued seemed to think she was settling but there wasn’t really any other option for her. At least when it came to eligible bachelors who would treat her and her waiting sum with respect. Lord Hutton might be a good test for a bed mate but he was also terribly in debt. So, not a good husband for a woman seeking ownership of a trust.

“Like who? Lord Sefton?” Darcy asked, thinking on the other bachelor who had offered to put up Lady M as his mistress. While he could be considered rather handsome with his blonde locks and blue eyes, his breath smelled of pickled onions and he had the soul of a reprobate. “He’s a worm if I ever saw one. Loki, I’m glad you decided to ban him from the Hellfire,”

“Well, he owed me a pretty penny. That also factored into my decision. Though, I would enjoy watching you kick him in the tackle once more,” Loki said and all three smiled at the memory.

“If he tries to grope my bosom again, he’ll lose his nutmegs,” Darcy concluded, frowning slightly. It had been a rather upsetting at the time. She’d told him ‘no’ on countless occasions but he simply did not think it applied to him. Although she enjoyed her escapades as the mysterious Lady M, it was fascinating and sometimes disappointing to witness men at their worst. Especially since it did not take them much to stoop so low. That was why Lord Hutton had stood out. Out of all the men who drooled over her like grotesque wolves, Hutton actually listened to what she said. Sure, he drooled quite a bit too, but he reminded her of Ian- sweet, gentle and just a tad awkward. While Hutton did not stutter quite as much as Ian had at first, he still made for just as interesting conversation. He wasn’t perfect and didn’t set Darcy’s heart ablaze but he’d do for her purposes. He seemed to like her for who she was, or rather, as much of her as she dared reveal as Lady M. That _should_ be enough.

So, why was it that even though she argued with Loki and Adele, she kind of wanted to agree with them and call this crazy scheme off?

“We know Sefton will never be an option but that does not mean there aren’t others,” Adele pleaded. “I fear if you choose the wrong man, you’ll not actually get a good idea of what’s up for offer and you’ll agree to Mr. Hugh’s proposal and live a terrible life with that man and his 15 children.”

“I fear she’s right, darling,” Loki jumped in and Darcy rolled her eyes at their extreme depiction of Mr. Hugh’s prolific marriage with his poor, deceased wife. “One day, you will be out at a ball or at the bookstore and you will pass a man who catches your eye. Someone that will make you faint with excitement. Then you’ll remember the silly, old man you have at home and the 20 children from another woman he’s having you watch over. The despair that falls over you shall be called regret.”

“He doesn’t have 20 children,” Darcy said lamely.

“Darcy, Loki is right,” Adele said. “Do not take the easy life with this man. You are a woman made for passion. Not just lover’s passion but passion for life. You cannot live that passion if you are taking care of 30 children.”

“He doesn’t have 15, 20 or 30 children,” Darcy insisted with more confidence. “There’s only 9 of them. Still living in the home.”

“They’re about as loud as 30 children,” Adele mumbled. “Anything above 5 and it’s not much of a difference if you add more.”

“Darcy, my darling, have I ever been wrong before?” Loki stood up and sat next to Darcy. He took her hands in his.

“Numerous times but go on,” Darcy said with a tiny smile. Loki gave her a tepid look before continuing.

“I just think that if you want to marry a man with a brood of children, a man who is nearly 30 years your senior and has already agreed to never ask you for your virtue because he will forever mourn the loss of his beloved wife, then you should do with your virtue as you please. We are both in agreement on this,” Loki paused for a moment and waited for Darcy to nod in agreement. “_But_ you won’t know what you please if you pick someone as plain as Hutton. Pick a man who will be more adventurous or at the very least, sets your lusts smouldering if not aflame.”

“Find a handsome rake, kiss him on the lips and see where the night goes,” Adele suggested coyly, scooting closer to Darcy. “Perhaps he runs a finger up your ankle. Perhaps he takes your virtue on a balcony. You want to know if you can live a life without the passion once you taste it? Find a man who inspires passion in you, first.”

“Surely, if I don’t know what real passion is to begin with, I can continue to live my life without it? At least Hutton will likely to be attentive,” Darcy asked, pulling her hands out of Loki’s and tossing them up in frustration. Mr. Boothby awoke in her lap with a frightened yap.

While she’d been engaged to Ian and they had a short courtship before he left for South America to study exotic birds, passionate really wasn’t a word that could be applied to what they shared. She’d been delighted that they seemed to have similar opinions at the time and he genuinely listened to what she said. In him, she saw more of an agreeable companion than a passionate love. It was the best she could really hope for.

Even if Hutton didn’t inspire a thousand nights of passion, she was certain he would not abuse her. The other men who had shown interest tended to reveal a bit of a mean streak whenever they didn’t get what they want. Whether it be losing a game or not gaining the attentions of a sought after woman. They grew ugly like large children having tantrums. It was rather off putting and made her question if all men were truly like that.

But she knew that wasn’t entirely so. Her father was a gentleman of the highest order. There had never been a man more kind, caring and joyful. Jack was a wonderful, doting brother. Loki and Thor were also men of great morals, even if Loki’s were a little more scrupulous than the others. Darcy just worried they were the only decent men in all of England.

“Even if you don’t find true passion at the masquerade ball, I think it’s horribly wasteful to have one go at an evening of pleasure with such a bore then go off and marry another bore,” Loki sighed then gave Darcy a pout. “I thought we were having such fun together. Why do you want to run away and become someone’s glorified governess?” 

Darcy tried to calm Mr. Boothby, who had begun to wriggle quite a bit. As she focused her attention on the excited pup, she bit her bottom lip and wondered how else to argue her position. “Mr. Hugh is offering a life of security as well as a certain level of respectability. It really has been fun living as Lady M but I can’t keep that up forever. If not Jack, then someone will find out my real identity and put an end to it all.”

“If it’s security that you want, we can find you a job. You can work at the Hellfire. I’ll give you in a respectable position that pays more than your writing,” Loki insisted.

“As respectable as one can be in a gaming Hell,” Darcy said in amusement but her smile drooped when she saw how serious he was. “I couldn’t take a job I didn’t earn or deserve and you know that any position offered there, could better serve someone in St. Giles.” Her words were heavy and Loki just slumped down with a huff, as he knew it was true. In fact, Adele had lived in St. Giles before being employed by Loki, then Darcy. There were others in Jack’s employ that had the same trajectory. Jimmy and Laurence, who had been floor staff at the Hellfire, now were footmen in the Rollins home. Though truth be told, they were acting more as watchmen for Darcy when she went out, in case her vile cousin ever came back. 

When Darcy was in rather dire straits, she stayed with either Jane or Loki depending on the situation. Loki’s residence at the Hellfire was obviously much more scandalous but she grew fond of some of the staff there, despite and in some ways because of their unsavoury backgrounds. Adele, Jimmy and Laurence were also instrumental in helping rescue Darcy from her cousin when he got it in his head to abduct her and marry her for her trust. Such assistance could never be fully repaid but their incomes were quite generous at the moment.

“We’ll find you something. You said you wanted to write novels instead of gossip rag drivel. I’ll set you up and you’ll write grand stories that everyone will want to read,” Loki said, his sagging shoulders rising up again.

“I haven’t even finished writing a book. Who knows if anyone will ever want to read it,” Darcy admitted with dejection but Loki shook his head at her lack of confidence. It was a dream of hers. While Jane had her stars and science, Darcy had her words. Clearly, Jane excelled quite a bit more in her field, even if men refused to take her seriously. It had taken Darcy some time to find something that she felt she was proficient at. A few years ago, someone in their club suggested Darcy write a story since she was always writing notes as Jane dictated. A passion had been born. But passions didn’t always pay for lodging and food. Darcy only established herself as a writer of gossip and occasionally articles or short stories about her misadventures. She needed income to provide for her while she was writing. Starving for one’s art, while noble in some ways, was not something she felt she was cut out for. Her cousin also taught her that even though she had passed age of majority, she was still subject to the evils of men. Some added protection wouldn’t go amiss.

“You mustn’t let doubt cloud your judgment. Have the confidence to know you will not have to rely on Mr. Hugh for security. You can rely on yourself,” Loki said with passion and Darcy offered him a grateful smile. For a moment, she believed him but then an image of her bound and gagged in a carriage came back and she held the wriggling Mr. Boothby to her chest. As if sensing her concern, he ceased trying to escape and licked her face in true affection.

“Jack has been promising that I shan’t be in want for anything for the rest of my life now he’s returned from the dead but I can’t forget being at the mercy of George. If it weren’t for my stepmother and her allowance as a Dowager, I would have been destitute after papa died. Then she was gone too and I had nothing for a time other than lousy, vile Cousin George who wanted all of papa’s money for himself. Even the money that was meant for me,” Darcy said, trying to keep her focus on Mr. Boothby’s slobber in an attempt to keep her emotions in check. She reminded herself she was no longer in that carriage, listening to all the terrible things George threatened her with. “It was so easy for him to sneak up and knock me on the head and tie me up. If…Jimmy hadn’t caught up to the when he did, who knew what would have happened to me?” Darcy’s voice shook and her throat tightened. She tried to breath in through her nose and out through her mouth, counting backwards from 10, like Jack taught her. She had never been more frightened in her life than in that carriage ride. She’d kicked and screamed but no one heard her. Or maybe they didn’t care. She still sometimes felt George’s revolting breath on her neck as he told her how he might just get her pregnant in the carriage and how no one cared about a lowly squire’s daughter.

Darcy took a deep fortifying breath and continued, voice quivering only slightly. “I need a greater sense of security. Mr. Hugh has offered me something that is a dream for a spinster. Sweet children to help raise, promise of a partnership and a promise of financial security. If I marry him, he and Jack will draw up documents to ensure I never have to deal with a Cousin George again. Besides…I do want a family. When we thought we lost Jack…then papa died and then my stepmother? I was utterly alone. It was absolutely horrid.”

“You’re not alone anymore, darling. You have a new family,” Loki assured her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her tight. She lay her face against his shoulder and a few tears slipped out. Mr. Boothby snuffled against Loki’s jacket and she hoped the pup wasn’t getting slobber on the fine fabric. “You helped teach me that family doesn’t need to be of blood. You also have Jane and my oaf of a brother, when they aren’t stomping about the forests in search of stars. I know you are frightened of more what ifs and imagined disasters but don’t let that spur you towards a decision that only suits you in the moment. I fear that you will ruin any chance at true happiness because you are frightened over a monster that is gone.”

“There might be unknown disasters in future but you have always faced them with courage and intelligence,” Adele added softly, running a soothing hand up and down Darcy’s back.

“I can’t predict disaster but I can always try and make it so that when it hits, it isn’t as harsh of a storm as it could be. Or that my home is strong enough to weather it,” Darcy said, voice slightly muffled by Loki’s finely tailored jacket. She pulled away and sat back up. “Mr. Hugh’s offer was quite generous and thoughtful. Even if I do not accept it, I need to seriously consider my place in life. I do not want to be a burden on Jack, not that he would ever say I was. But I’d feel like one. Also, who’s to say that there isn’t another fortune chaser down the line who hears of my circumstances? I refuse to be at the mercy of any man. It is time I take my destiny into my hands. If I let a man touch me, it will be of my own decision. If I agree to marry a man, it will be because he will not enter matrimony under the understanding that I cease to exist and all I own becomes his. I feel that I’ve lost my innocence and hope long ago due to the cruelty of the _ton_, so what does it matter if I offer up my virtue to a man of my choosing?”

With that, Loki and Adele were silenced. It appeared the argument was settled, for now. Loki continued to hold Darcy, letting her lay her head on his shoulder. Adele stroked her hair and Mr. Boothby yapped and offered sweet puppy kisses.

Ever since Ian Boothby had rather cruelly married without warning and sent her a wretched, short letter as explanation, her life began a rather sharp descent. Ian called off their engagement, then a day after, her father died quite suddenly. She’d been unable to access the money he left for her as it was put into an iron clad trust and only to be touched once she married. A year later when Darcy and her stepmother were just about done mourning (not they would ever be truly over her father’s death), her dear stepmother died. Darcy’s worm of a cousin, who had been hounding her for a marriage, decided that she was then free game and _kidnapped_ her. It was as if life was conspiring against her to show her how helpless she truly was. It had all been humbling and she realized that she couldn’t continue to live life dreaming. So, she took her nom de plume and made a second debut, of sorts. Lady Mischief had lived up to her name, enjoyed a life of thrill and pleasure to the fullest but now it was time to settle down. To become Darcy Lewis once more. Or rather, Darcy Hugh, now. She just wished the new name ran off the tongue a bit more. 

* * *

When Darcy felt mostly composed, she decided to bid Loki a goodbye and sit in the garden with Adele. Mr. Hugh should be by soon. They had agreed to picnic in Kensington Gardens and read. Mr. Hugh thought it important for them to do things they might as a married couple. Only completely innocent diversions, of course. Mostly, it was just a way for them to get a better sense of each other’s temperaments and ensure that they could co-exist peacefully. They also chatted and discussed their general opinions on various topics. While Mr. Hugh was a genuinely kind man, Darcy could tell he missed his wife. He would often talk about her, telling stories and discussing her opinions. The late Mrs. Hugh was a fascinating woman and Darcy knew that she’d never measure up. She doubted even if the Princess Charlotte could in Mr. Hugh’s eyes. 

They made their way down the stairs and towards the front door. Darcy was still holding Mr. Boothby in her arms, even if he desperately wanted to escape. She and Loki were chatting about rather inane topics, such as the colours she planned on wearing to the ball, as Adele brought up the rear of their trio. When Darcy looked towards the door, her breath caught in her throat. For a moment, she just stood there and blinked, assuming she were dreaming. In the doorway stood Lord Brock Rumlow, Earl of Malton and the only man Darcy had ever met that caused her to feel anything remotely close to toe curling. Lighting shot through her limbs as their eyes met, and for a moment, Darcy forgot how to breathe. Air caught in her chest, sticking to her throat as she fought for breath. Jack had told Darcy the whole truth of his capture and how he’d been in a Spanish jail for over a year. He also told her that Lord Rumlow had been the man to find and save him. Except, Lord Rumlow never made an appearance in Jack’s home. Darcy never expected him to, for some reason. She certainly never expected to be caught like a frightened hart at the bottom of the stairs.

It had been many years since she last saw him. Perhaps 7 years, at a dinner her stepmother hosted. Just about the time Ian proposed. He was on leave in between his orders and had planned on leaving for the continent soon. In the years since she last saw him, he appeared to have grown even bigger. Except, not at all like the Lords who grew fat on food and drink. Lord Rumlow clearly had grown in muscle only. His arms were larger and his chest broader. The tailored jacket and breeches fit him in such a manner that truly highlighted the way his waist tapered and the power hidden beneath his skin.

Of course, there were also the new scars on his face. Angry, puckered red slashes ran down the left of his face. On his forehead, cheek and jaw. There were also some burns on his ear. All received when he was trying to save Jack. She’d overheard people saying Lord Rumlow looked grotesque now but Darcy didn’t see it. Yes, he had scars when he was once considered as flawless as a Roman statue. Yet to Darcy, he was still handsome as ever. The scars made him more rugged and she found that it gave him more character. Especially since she knew Jack’s life had depended on those scars. They seemed more deserving of respect, in a way. Without his suffering, Jack would not have returned. Her heart beat faster as their gazes held. The mesmerizing trance broke when Mr. Boothby yelped because she’d been squeezing him too tightly.

Darcy knew that she stood there, mouth gaped open like an unattractive, pink fish. And unattractive to him, she knew she was. He had mistresses of great beauty and his ex-fiancée had been a true diamond of the first water. She’d also been the first women to threaten Darcy if she ever so much as spoke to Lord Rumlow. At the time, Darcy had been a young, impressionable girl and did her best to follow that advice, not entirely understanding why the woman seemed so threatened. It must have been clear to all how hopelessly smitten Darcy was with Lord Rumlow, even if he wouldn’t spare much more than required courteous words to the trifling stepsister of his good friend. 

“Miss Lewis,” Lord Rumlow greeted and Darcy inhaled sharply at the sound of her name rumbling from his chest. He had a voice that could make a Vestal Virgin lament on her life’s duty. A heated gaze that could make a nun renounce her vows. Something pooled in her stomach and she wished from the bottom of her heart that she had the option of Rumlow over poor, dear Hutton. For a second, Lord Rumlow appeared to draw up to ask something but frowned and cleared his throat.

“Lord Rumlow,” Darcy nodded and curtseyed as propriety demanded. When she stood back up, their gazes met once again before darting away. Lord Rumlow to the gloves in his hands and Darcy to Mr. Boothby. Clearly, he was here to see Jack and their butler was simply checking to make sure he was ready to receive a guest. When Loki jabbed her side, Darcy suddenly remembered that she and Lord Rumlow were not the sole occupants of the hall. Clearing her throat, Darcy sat Mr. Boothby down by her feet and gestured towards Loki. “Lord Rumlow, this is Loki. He is my dear friend.”

“Loki…” Lord Rumlow trailed off, lips thinning as he waited for Loki’s last name or some sort of title. When Loki had severed ties with Thor’s father, Odin, he’d started using his birth father’s name but eventually settled for just a one name moniker. It suited him to not be tied to either man. Both of whom had proven to be very undeserving of the father title.

“Just Loki,” Loki said smoothly with a little bow.

“And my maid, Adele,” Darcy introduced her maid who curtseyed. It wasn’t really something most felt the need to do but Darcy saw Adele as important enough for an introduction, even if the _ton_ wouldn’t have agreed. It didn’t appear to phase Lord Rumlow as much as Loki’s lack of a surname. Taking a breath, she continued. “Lord Rumlow, I wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me?” Lord Rumlow repeated, looking somewhat dazed. Darcy faltered, worried he simply hoped to go about the day not having to talk to her.

“Yes…Lord Rumlow. Thank you for returning my brother to me. I…never thought I’d ever see him again. Jack told me that you played an important role in his return and for that, I am forever in your debt,” Darcy said, voice hitching slightly with emotion. “I don’t think there’s anything I could do to truly repay you but if there was something, just say the word. Jack means so much to me and having him back is something I only thought possible in my most outlandish dreams.”

“Perhaps you can thank me by calling me Brock,” Lord Rumlow, or rather, Brock said. At the request, Darcy could feel her entire face flush even more and she told herself it was a silly reaction. He was simply being kind. There was nothing truly behind the request. “You used to call me Brock. Then you stopped.”

“I…I thought it improper,” Darcy said quietly, not wanting to admit that she attempted to sever all ties of familiarity with him when Cynthia Smith had frightened the daylights out of her. Shaking her head slightly, she bit her lip. Brock’s eyes darted down and a glazed sheen seemed to cover his eyes. She noticed his Adam’s apple bob. Doing her very best, Darcy focused on not allowing her legs to buckle underneath her.

“Well, I insist you call me Brock,” Brock said and Darcy just nodded, not sure if she was capable of saying anything remotely coherent. A knock on the door pulled her attention away from the handsome, awe-inspiring lord in front of her. Jimmy appeared in all his jolly bearing. With a wink Adele’s way, he whistled a melodic tune as he answered the door. Darcy noticed Brock’s brow raise at what he must of thought was impertinent behaviour from a footman. When the door opened, Darcy saw Mr. Hugh with a smile on his face. He greeted Jimmy prior to noticing Darcy’s presence. 

“Mr. Hugh,” Darcy squeaked before Jimmy could ask after the man’s identity. Jimmy opened the door further once he realized Darcy knew their second guest. “Punctual as always.”

“Ah, Miss Lewis. Punctuality is a true virtue. I tell my children as much as I can. Though, I feared I might run late today. I may have been overzealous in my selection for our reading. From what you said interested you, Henry, Herbert and I found quite a few that we hope you shall like. The boys demanded I report back with your opinion,” Mr. Hugh admitted. Darcy couldn’t help but smile at the gesture from his children. Some were rather resentful of the idea of a new woman in the house but others were open. Though, how Mr. Hugh and his wife had been able to come up with so many different names beginning with H, was beyond Darcy. “Honoria also helped me select a delightful picnic. Shall we hop into my phaeton and make our way?”

“Yes. Of course. That all sounds wonderfully delightful. Adele, will you grab my shawl and reticule? Also, a leash?” Darcy requested and Adele nodded. Just as she turned to run up the stairs, she raised an eyebrow and darted her eyes towards Brock once. The wordless suggestion was clear. Adele wanted to know why Darcy couldn’t pick a man like _that_ to lose her virtue to. If Darcy’s face hadn’t yet been flushing, it would have done so then. For surely, if Darcy had that luck, she would have already leaped at the chance.

Clearing her throat at the silence that fell, Darcy picked up Mr. Boothby, who had begun to sniff Brock’s boots. Remembering her manners, Darcy introduced Mr. Hugh to Brock (as her suitor already knew Loki). While Loki bid farewell, Brock frowned at Mr. Hugh. His eyes moved back and forth between Darcy and Mr. Hugh’s pleasant anecdotes about his children and their hope at spending time with her once more. She was saved from having to foster any idle chatter between the men when the butler arrived and ushered Brock towards Jack’s office. Brock mumbled goodbye and Darcy watched him walk away. Just as he was disappearing out of sight, he turned his head and caught Darcy’s eye one last time. The stern, almost angry glare on his face caused Darcy’s heart to sink. Why did she harbour feelings for a man who would never see her as being more than a nuisance?


	4. An Earl's Offer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos! ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜🖤

As Brock followed the butler to Jack’s office, he did his best to settle the churning in his stomach. Except, no amount of wild excuses to explain away what he just witnessed could ease his panic. When he first caught sight of Darcy, after not seeing her for 7 years, his heart had stopped. Only to then pound loudly in his ears. She looked like Aphrodite descending to Earth to tempt mortals into incurable lust and passion.

Yet that fantasy shattered when the older gentleman appeared. Was Darcy being courted by this Mr. Hugh? The man was surely old enough to be her grandfather. Although Brock felt his own age may have made his past interest in Darcy inappropriate (not that any of the _ton_ would agree), at least they were within a decade of each other, give or take a couple of years. Surely, Mr. Hugh was just a fatherly figure. Or maybe Darcy had been a governess to his children and had grown close to the family? If Jack was seriously allowing her to be courted by the old louse, then his stay in jail had clearly addled his brains.

With each step, his thoughts spiralled out of control. At first, attempting to explain away the unlikely pair roaming Kensington Gardens, then contemplating how the old man was clearly manipulating Darcy into doing unspeakable acts against her will. By the time his name was announced, he had the sole purpose of giving Jack a piece of his mind. Brock completely forgot the reason for his visit was simply to check to see if Jack was adjusting to life back in the _ton_ just as terribly as he was. Possibly to commiserate together, share a nice glass of whiskey and discuss opinions best not heard by Prinny or parliament. Yet, the moment Brock was announced and the butler silently left, he was unable to hold back. After the click of the closing door, he burst.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Brock spat, a small voice that sounded vaguely like Marius tsking clucked in the back of his head. Either it was so soft that he couldn’t fully hear it or he had a lot more unresolved frustrations regarding Darcy that he needed to air.

In response, Jack raised his brow as he lifted his head from the paperwork on his desk. A flash of shock rushed over his features before he was able to school them back into the apathetic sneer preferred by the _ton_. “Probably a lot but is there something in particular that’s brought you here? Clearly not a friendly visit.”

“I meant, why are you letting Darcy gallivant about with that lecherous old man?” Brock demanded, some of his steam disappearing as he remembered that he really had no right to defend Darcy’s virtue and prospects.

“Ah, so you’ve met Mr. Hugh?” Jack asked, lips quirking in amusement. Standing up, Jack walked towards his drinks cabinet and poured them both heaping glassfuls of whiskey. As he took a sip, he raised the other glass and waited for Brock to join him. Once Brock walked across the room and grabbed the tumbler, he took a long gulp. Jack shrugged before continuing. “For a moment, I thought you’d meant Loki.”

“I will get to him in a second,” Brock mumbled into the brim of the tumbler, enjoying the way the whiskey warmed his throat and chest. “But surely, Mr. Hugh is old enough to be her grandfather. Are you sincerely welcoming him as a brother-in-law with open arms?”

“Normally no, but Darcy insisted on allowing his pursuit,” Jack said and Brock choked in the middle of his more leisurely sip. The liquid burned his nose and he coughed up what little tried to make its way down his lungs. “I fear I had little to say in that matter. She was quite persistent about it.”

“Darcy _wants_ to marry him?” Brock asked in horror, wondering why in the world she wished to do so. Surely, the man did not have such a silver tongue, better suited to a conniving snake, that he could so easily convince a sweet girl like Darcy to agree to a marriage.

“Mr. Hugh runs several textile mills. His elder sons and he are also branching out into overseas trade. He’s a good catch for a husband, even if his age might put off a few more unseasoned misses,” Jack said but his tone was even and unemotional. Brock recognised it as Jack’s ‘Viscount voice’ he reverted into when trying to conduct lordly business or hobnobbing. It had been happening a lot more now that Jack had returned to England. “I would rather her be interested in one of the man’s sons but it seemed it was not to be. She will not entertain the thought of another.”

Brock frowned deeply and grunted out his distaste. “Are you suggesting your sister is now a fortune hunter?”

Instead of immediately replying to the question that bordered on insulting, Jack let out a long, beleaguered sigh. His shoulders dropped and he walked with long, weary strides to sit as his desk. Staring out into the room with a far-off gaze, Jack took a lingering sip of whiskey. Not pressing to end the silence, Brock sat in the chair opposite of the large mahogany desk. Deciding he best avoid choking on the fine liquor, Brock set his glass on the desk and waited for Jack’s reply. In just a few seconds, exhaustion had drained Jack’s features, making him look much older than he was.

“Darcy has it in her head that it behoves her to marry anyone that will be kind enough to her. She sees herself as some burden and hopes that if she can access her trust, then she will gain some sort of independence,’ Jack explained slowly and Brock felt his heart sink to his feet.

“Have you done anything to cause her to feel as such?” Brock asked but regretted the question as soon as it left his mouth. He’d been unable to stop the initial bite of accusation of his tone. From their conversations over the past few months, Brock knew there were fewer brothers as attentive as Jack had tried to be for Darcy. If Jack’s actions had brought her to these assumptions, it would have been an action so minor or inconsequential to Jack, that he might not even remember it.

“I’m sure you know the answer to that,” Jack spared Brock a lukewarm glance. “After her experiences with her cousin, she feels that she will be more secure with a husband. I admit that when she first mentioned someone had approached her with an offer, I was hopeful she had found a worthy gentleman to assuage her loneliness. Hearing that it was simply a business proposal of a sad widower who needed someone to mind his children, made me rather wary of the offer. But Darcy practically begged for my approval and as you know, she is of the age where she wouldn’t need my permission, if her mind truly was set. It’s more of a curtesy at this point. The trust does have a clause for my approval of the groom but I could hardly deny her, unless I felt the man a fortune hunter of the worst degree.”

“Does she harbour any…warm feelings towards Mr. Hugh?” Brock asked carefully, hearing the utter dejection in Jack’s voice. The man had been so full of guilt upon his return that he practically spoiled Darcy rotten. Whatever book, ribbon or frippery she wanted, it was hers. Not that she seemed to have taken much advantage of this the last Brock heard. Still, being courted by a wealthy, elderly widower would have just been another easy yes, if she’d pressed the matter.

“I think she sees him as an uncle, more than anything,” said Jack after some thought. He scratched at the scruff on his chin and looked out at the sea of books littered about the office. Brock assumed at first that Darcy had much to do with the disarray but he now noted the rumpled appearance of Jack’s ensemble. Either his butler was slipping his later years or Jack had worn this outfit a lot longer than just this morning. Judging by the darkening under Jack’s eyes, it was likely the latter. Brock realized he should have stepped in for a visit, sooner.

“That’s hardly something to build a marriage upon,” Brock grumbled petulantly and Jack let out a sharp, bitter laugh.

“Marriages have been built on much less. Besides, who am I to tell her no? If she wishes to marry Mr. Hugh, I must remind myself that he is, in principle, a good catch. In any case, he seems to be a truly kind man. He was friends with Darcy’s father before…” Jack trailed off with a noise that sounded almost like a whimper. This throat bobbed and a wet sheen glazed his eyes. Although Mr. Lewis had only been a stepfather, Brock knew that Jack cared deeply for the man who’d shown him nothing but love and kindness, as if he were Jack’s own flesh and blood. Nay, better than his own flesh and blood.

Looking down at his hands, Jack roughly cleared his throat. His voice croaked but he quickly regained control. “When Mr. Hugh approached me after I refused to give my blessing, he discussed how he’d ensure Darcy would be safe, cared for and surrounded by a large, happy family. Also, that he would sign over all her trust money received upon marriage, in addition to adding a handsome yearly sum of pin money. He even said he would refuse to ever…touch her for the duration of their marriage, as he would forever mourn the death of his wife. We discussed the potential of his having mistresses down the line but it was clear Darcy is just a companion and caregiver for his children.”

“So, it is just a sense of security she wishes for?” Brock asked, rubbing his forehead and trying to make sense of it all. He also wanted to think about something other than the old man getting his wrinkly hands on Darcy’s creamy, white skin. Even if he said he’d not touch Darcy, Brock couldn’t imagine the most devout monk could keep his hands to himself if in prolonged contact with the beautiful goddess. “Any ‘kind’ man will do? Clearly, she’s lost her senses,” scoffed Brock. He hated to apply such harsh words to Darcy but her judgement clearly was muddled if she thought this was the best path for her. She could do so much better for herself and it worried Brock what the state of her confidence was. But the idea of any other man touching Darcy and enjoying his husbandly rights got Brock hot under the collar. He would be more than willing to issue a challenge to meet at dawn with pistols. It wasn’t rational, necessarily, so perhaps his own judgment was muddled as well.

“That’s a bit harsh,” Jack grunted, corner of his lips twisting down as he upturned his nose slightly.

“The only young women I knew that happily settled for old, rich perverts, were the ones that cared for nothing but social standing and money. It was almost frightening how calculating and conniving they could be. I certainly didn’t allow my sisters to socialize with women like that because I didn’t want them to be tainted by such evil,” Brock ranted, but it was more of his attempts to understand the entire situation. To try and break it all down. He wanted to understand why Darcy would give up hope and the possibility of love. The only women he knew to compare these actions to were the vipers of the _ton_. His ex-fiancée might very well the leader of that harrowing den. Cynthia had not cared for who was in between her thighs long as she had money and status.

It made Brock sick to his stomach for he never thought he’d lump Darcy into that category of woman. Bitterness swelled together with fear in Brock’s chest and it almost felt like indigestion. He’d not seen Darcy in 7 years. It wasn’t like he’d known her all that well, to begin with. She’d become a mystical fairy, representing a fantasy he’d secretly always wanted. Yet, who was he to say who Darcy really was? “Darcy seemed so carefree and optimistic all those years ago, but that is clearly no longer the case. I thought her better than just wanting a boring life with a lecherous man and loud children. Perhaps, I misjudged her.”

“She told me that after her bastard of a fiancé broke off their prolonged engagement and her cousin kidnapped her, she’d lost faith in men and romance. I could hardly try to argue that point,” Jack admitted, slumping down in his chair in defeat. He scratched at the back of his neck and looked outside the window that faced the home’s garden. A bird could be heard twittering cheerfully away. “Mr. Hugh is the first man who approached her that she feels is trustworthy. Especially since they are approaching the marriage as a business partnership, of sorts. Completely void of lust or romantic notions. She’s doing her best to be rational about the whole mess. No amount of assurances on my end, financial or otherwise, will get her off the idea.”

At hearing that, guilt welled in Brock’s stomach. Of course, she no longer cared for romance or adventure. Between one man breaking her heart and another set to break her spirit, she was bound to wish to retreat away from complications. To not face the numerous terrors the world had to offer to a woman with no security or connections. Except, she did have security. She had Jack, who ensured she was set up even if he died. She also had Brock, now. Even if she didn’t know it. With that thought, Brock cleared his throat and sat up, energy and faith renewing itself.

“What if…I offered for her?” Brock said, not entirely thinking about the words until they were half out of his mouth. The offer and the thought had come from nowhere. A gut reaction. At least, he assumed it did. Marriage had never been a condition that he ever attempted to hasten, much less willingly suggested. Judging from the wide-eyed state of shock Jack displayed, his friend didn’t take the offer seriously.

“You would marry my sister? To what end? So, that she doesn’t have to marry Mr. Hugh?” Jack asked with an almost cruel laugh. “She is to decline one man’s loveless offer for another?” 

Clearing his throat, Brock shifted in the chair. The squeak of leather sounded unimaginably loud in the office. Unbidden, his cheeks heated and he could feel himself blushing from his ears to his chest. He hadn’t blushed since he was a boy with a governess.

There would never have much trouble convincing Darcy’s father over letting Brock court her, had he ever the courage back then to suggest it. But now, Jack was her guardian. Of sorts. While Brock might not need explicit permission, having an explicit blessing was respectful of the friendship and bond they shared. Jack was much more protective of Darcy, now that they only had each other. Brock doubted he’d be jolly over the sudden announcement that Brock wanted to marry Darcy. Despite their friendship, none of Brock’s brash actions in their younger days offered as a decent reference in his ability to keep a wife happy. A good man-at-arms, perhaps. A decent sailor, even. A damn good spy. But not a faithful husband.

Anyway, Brock wasn’t even sure he wanted to get married. But he also had to admit to himself and possibly Jack, that the idea of marriage to Darcy did not instil the normal sense of terror that usually flooded through him when considering the lifelong plight. Though, the very unimpressed look Jack’s face now twisted into was a clear indication that he was not convinced of Brock’s less than enthused offer. Brock tugged at his suddenly too tight cravat. “I mean, I do need heirs and my mother would say she has a…hearty figure conducive for child bearing. Why not Darcy?”

It was the completely wrong thing to say and Brock knew it a second before it fully left his mouth. Jack’s eyes narrowed and for the first time, he looked upon Brock with distrust. Brock was making a terrible muck up of this. The last thing one should say to the brother of the women you were trying to offer for was something about her rather scrumptious figure. Brock had noticed it when he first caught sight of Darcy walking down the stairs. She’d filled out a bit over the years and he heartily approved of it. He wanted to run his hands down her smooth curves and see how well they fit against his own body. Still…best not to let his friend know this. “That is, what I _wanted_ to say is how suitable she is for a wife. For me. Since I technically am in the market for one. I mean, I am clearly the better choice above Mr. Hugh. I’m an Earl, for goodness sakes. How can she say no to that?”

“I’m sure she’d love to hear about how ‘suitable’ she is,” Jack said, curling his lip and he set his tumbler on the desk with a loud thump. Brock had never thrown his title at Jack before and was now cringing at how he did so now. It wasn’t that being an Earl made him better than Mr. Hugh. He wasn’t even sure why he said it. Probably because an image of Darcy half dressed in their wedding bed flashed in front of him and he was trying not to undress the poor woman in his mind’s eye whilst also talking to her brother. Bad form and all that. Even if, at the moment, it was hard to not imagine how soft her skin would feel under his lips. “In fact, I’m sure she’d hit you over your most honourable, lordly head with a suitable book, if you were to open up to her in this manner.”

“I’ve not articulated myself in the best manner,” Brock admitted with a wince. Then again, he supposed it was on par for the topic. He’d always bumbled his words around Darcy. So much so that he eventually realized it was probably best to say as little as possible to her. The hint of an amused smile from Jack gave Brock a little bit of hope that he hadn’t both completely ruined his friendship as well as a chance with Darcy. Taking a moment to collect his thoughts, he let out a long exhale of breath. “I doubt you ever noticed, but I once held a small flame for Miss Lewis.”

“I did notice,” Jack said simply, settling his hands on his stomach and lifting his feet onto his desk. There was a long pause as he watched Brock carefully. In the quiet room, Brock’s thick swallow could be clearly heard. This information took Brock by surprise. He was fairly certain he kept his emotions for Darcy Lewis, which at the time were hardly explored even by him, under a cool façade. Good lord, who else had an inkling about this? Had he just been walking around, making a complete fool of himself all those years ago and everyone just laughed behind his back? “Wasn’t sure if your lack of flirting was because you were terrible at it or out of an obligation to our friendship.”

“Uh. It was a mix of both,” Brock admitted with a grimace, running a hand over his face before grabbing his tumbler and taking a large gulp of whiskey. He ignored the harsh burn and quickly took another.

“There was also your betrothal to Cynthia. I assumed that disaster put you off marriage,” said Jack, adding with a wry smile, “if I had been so inclined, it would have put me off women entirely.”

“That is also true. Regarding marriage, that is. I admit I am also rather wary of red headed shrews now. But I’m sure that I can make the union work with Darcy. She is nothing like Cynthia in morals or temperament.”

“Nor will she be a biddable wife,” Jack quirked his head.

“I am not really on the market for a biddable wife,” Brock promised. “I’d rather a wife who doesn’t sleep with all of London but neither someone who will bow down to me.”

“And you think you will find that in my sister? A loyal but stimulating wife?” Jack asked, tone light but a clear warning in it. Brock took a moment to answer.

“I truly feel that Darcy is an intelligent, independent and beautiful woman. Two of those attributes are not ones normally lauded in society. I had always admired Darcy for traits that were undeniably hers. Other men might have sought to stifle her personality while I would welcome it wholeheartedly. She would want for naught, for I too, have invested in lucrative ventures. But also, I am certain we would grow to love each other, if given the chance. Do you really want to send her into a marriage certain to be loveless and starved of any affection?”

“Honestly, the promise of no carnal affection was one of the perks of his offer,” Jack mumbled, face twisting as if he swallowed something bitter. “I admit I’ve had other offers for Darcy since my return but ‘affection’ was clearly at the forefront of their minds. Old, randy goats.”

“Well, then, consider my offer. You know I would care for her and she would want for not. Material or otherwise. With me, she might even have chance at having her own children. Not someone else’s.”

“I’d rather not delve into the ‘otherwise’ that goes into that,” Jack groused, removing his feet from the desk and letting them fall loudly to the floor. “But I will admit, you are also very good husband material. Your previous inability to keep faithful, aside. I trust your judgement and character. Surprised you haven’t gotten married, yet. Given how hard your mother has been advocating it all these years.”

“I just hadn’t find the right woman,” Brock said, familiar argument at the tip of his tongue as if he were disputing with his mother.

“And do you truly think Darcy is the right woman?” Jack asked, picking up his tumbler and swirling the whiskey with intense attentiveness.

“Yes,” Brock answered with such deep sincerity that even he was shocked. But he knew the moment the word was out, that it was true. Jack watched Brock with the piercing eyes of the rather frightful gaze famous amongst the Purbeck line. Eventually, Jack sipped at his whiskey once more and looked up to the ceiling, as if he were contemplating a great philosophical question.

“I suppose that I’d rather you be her husband, than Mr. Hugh. I never liked the idea of Darcy having to become the mother to 13 children from another woman.”

“He has 13 children from his previous wife?” Brock exclaimed, feeling his face stretch in amazement. His brain tried to wrap around the concept of chasing after 13 children, all at once. He’d rather face Boney head on in a duel.

“Around about,” Jack nodded solemnly.

“No wonder his wife passed. She must have been exhausted,” Brock muttered and Jack let out a snort.

“She was also a woman who promoted female independence and her works are very lauded in the Learned Ladies of London Club. She very well may have been exhausted,” Jack said lightly. Though, at the mention of the Learned Ladies Bluestocking club, Brock couldn’t help but groan.

“I forgot Darcy was in that club,” Brock said with a frown.

“_In_ the club? She founded it,” Jack chuckled. Brock’s frown deepened. “You take issue with that?”

“No,” Brock assured and that was the truth. “My sisters are also members but they return sometimes so riled up, as if they are ready to storm parliament themselves and demand better laws for women. I just can’t imagine a woman who founded such a club would so willingly agree to a marriage of convenience.”

“After everything that happened to Darcy…especially George’s fiendish attempts, she’s been much changed. I had hoped that since the both of us were undergoing our own emotional turmoil, we’d help each other weather the storm, as it were,” Jack said, pain and guilt beginning to contort his features. “I’m starting to worry that she’s taken a different approach to her grief. She’s running towards what she thinks will be comfort. A sense of security, since she hasn’t had it these past few years. Something she believes will solve her problems when it is only a dirty bandage. I think she could have weathered it all, had the tragedy not been so ill timed, coming at her so steadily. George may have pushed her past the edge of recovery.”

“If I ever see George, I will run a sword through him,” Brock vowed, preferring the anger he now felt over the helplessness over Darcy’s situation. While he could offer her affection and security with a marriage, he wasn’t sure he could offer much regarding fixing the emotional turmoil she still felt. Most of that weight fell to Darcy’s shoulders, as much as he wanted to simply take it all away, if he could.

“You’d have to get in line behind me,” Jack said with a bitter twist of his lips. Anger lit his gaze. “Ever since he heard I was back, there’s been no sight of him. The bounder hasn’t even been caught at his usual clubs. He likely knows I’ve been searching for him.”

“The worm has self-preserving instincts,” said Brock and Jack nodded, gaze wandering to a spot behind Brock. “Though, I would be careful in challenging the man to a duel. I’d hate to see you go off to jail so soon after I dragged you out of one.”

At that comment, Jack snorted out a laugh. “I wouldn’t be so foolish as to broadcast my intentions. If anything, they wouldn’t find his body at the bottom of the Thames for quite some time.”

“Let me know if you need help disposing of the body,” Brock offered and both men took a long sip of whiskey, eyes meeting in silent but grim understanding. Years ago, Brock would have never thought he’d be discussing murder and the disposal of a body so freely. Yet, both he and Jack had been changed by the war. There were times he wished he could go back to being a carefree and rash youth. Then again, he looked back at that time and sometimes wondered how he could have been so naïve and immature. No, as blackened as his soul had become, he would never trade what he knew and understood now. To know what he was truly capable of. It gave a man a certain strength and confidence to know just how far he could go.

“You know, Loki also offered for Darcy,” Jack said after their long pause, though his tone was more amused than Brock would have ever thought it would be when imparting such news. At that information, Brock’s chest tightened. Loki, while a fiend in his own right, was much nicer to look at. A reminder that Brock was no longer the picture-perfect Earl that women clamoured for. His nerve fell significantly when he considered the fact that Darcy might not _want_ to marry Brock on the grounds that he looked like a monster. There was also how he could so easily discuss murder- albeit of a despicable man undeserving the civilities of life he’d been freely offered, when Brock had known much better men who’d died in battle. There were many things that he knew would make him a bad husband and not deserving of Darcy. Yet, it didn’t cause Brock to retract his offer for her hand. Perhaps that made him a worse man than he realized.

“Oh?” Brock said, choking on the sound. While Loki was not a man that he would suggest any woman spend time with, if she weren’t a prostitute or criminal, he had to begrudgingly give the man some credit. He’d cared for Darcy and looked after her when so few did. He’d given her a roof, warm meals and security. When her cousin snatched her, it was Loki and his staff who had realized and found her before it was too late. Yes, it would seem that Loki was very much Darcy’s saviour and any woman who appreciated even an ounce of romance would see him as a handsome knight. More than that, out of everyone she had known, Loki was the one man that had provided for her, despite her financial situation and reputational ruin. No other man in the _ton_ could touch him in sense of honour for that very reason. Brock had a title but Loki most likely had her trust. Even if the _ton_ did not think the two had any equal bearing, Brock knew Darcy wouldn’t consider even a duke if the man wasn’t worth his salt.

“Both Darcy and I said no,” said Jack and Brock found his concern settling back somewhat. “It was clearly an offer to allow Darcy security, rather than a life of domestic bliss.”

“How do you know he is happy with that answer? He could very well try and do what her cousin did,” Brock said. While relieved that the offer had been turned down, he also had the urge to lock Darcy up in his estate to keep her safe. It might make him as much of a brute as the other men she’d faced but he didn’t care in this moment.

“Since you are not one to gossip, I suppose I can tell you,” Jack said. “Darcy has confided in me that Loki has…similar proclivities as mine. When it comes to preferring the company of men.”

“Ah. Well. I suppose that protects her virtue,” Brock conceded. It had been something that Jack confided in Brock long ago, when Brock walked in on Jack engaging in some…carnal pleasures with another man. While Brock had never judged his friend on how he preferred the company of men over women (he’d certainly met quite a few men with such preferences during his time fighting Boney), they never discussed it much other than how it was a fact. Brock had learned long ago that certain things had no bearing on a man’s character. Consenting adult relations devoid of cruelty was one of them. If someone were a nasty bastard, he would be so no matter who he preferred to engage with. A man’s love of another man did not equal immorality. “But how do you know he will not sell her off or try and gain access to her money?”

“Darcy asked me to trust Loki and I have been inclined to do so. He and I have had numerous chats. While he has his own demons, regarding to his family dynamics, I cannot sense any cruel intentions. Despite his protests, the man seems to have a heart of gold hidden under all the soot,” Jack explained with a shrug, though there was a tiny, fond smile on his lips. “I’ve known cruel men and evil men. Loki is neither one of those things. He truly sees Darcy as a sister and wishes the best for her. She brings out a nurturing side to him I don’t think he’s ever had the option to allow to bloom. Besides, he treats that damn pug of Darcy’s with affection and I can only imagine anyone who does so must have the patience of a saint. Even if I were to rise an objection, I doubt she’d listen.”

“All very generous observations on your part,” Brock pursed his lips and sat back in his chair, searching Jack for any indication of how he could glean all this information and be completely certain of it.

Noticing his examination, Jack shrugged and a bit of pink coloured his cheeks. Brock lifted a brow at the involuntary action. “You tupped the man?” Brock asked in disbelief, easily reading between the lines.

“Some of our conversations may have been…in between more straining and sweaty physical labours.”

“The two of you are lovers,” Brock stated and Jack scoffed half-heartedly at the charge. 

“We only, it was just once…or a few times,” admitted Jack, head tipping downwards as he tried to hide his red cheeks.

“So, it’s very possible that the man is seducing you in an attempt to bring his nefarious plans for Darcy into life?” Brock challenged Jack, not willing to risk Darcy’s safety.

“It’s not like I sought out anything long term,” Jack’s lips thinned but he shook his head and continued with conviction. “What I’m trying to say is, that the man was in a more vulnerable position and thus, I had a better ability to question his intentions. It’s rather difficult for a man to lie so well when you have his rod in your-”

“Okay, okay,” Brock lifted his hands in surrender as he desperately interrupted Jack. As much as he supported his friend’s preferences, there were some images he didn’t wish to have in his head. Jack and Loki in flagrante delicto, being one of them. In the past, they’d discussed each other’s preferences and related differences in a rather vague manner. Either way, Brock had never been one to recite his sexual exploits to anyone who would listen, as some lords seem to enjoy.

“I’m just assuring you why I think he was telling the truth. I have my ways, sometimes,” Jack said, pleased expression firmly on his face. 

“Not sure the army would approve of your interrogation tactics,” Brock said dryly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Clearing this throat, he decided to bring the conversation back towards the matter at hand. Not whatever Jack might have had in his at some point. “Given that he played a vital role in her safety, there’s not much we can say on the matter without sounding like ogres,” Brock admitted begrudgingly. Still, he’d have his sources keep an eye on Loki, just in case.

“Yes, in many ways, Darcy oversees her life, even if she doesn’t feel that is entirely true. That being said, I will give you my blessing, _if_ you can convince Darcy to marry you,” said Jack nodded, lifting up his tumbler in mock salute. Brock’s heart lifted only to fall to his feet when realization hit. 

“Uh, yes, I almost forgot I’d have to _convince_ her,” Brock said, insecurities welling up once more. He reached up and touched the scarred side of his face.

“Don’t look so dispirited. You know, I think Darcy also held a small flame for you,” Jack suggested. Brock sat up straighter, chest filling with hope and something fluttering in his gut.

“Really?”

“Yes. She used to blush all the time when you were around. I’d tease her for it after you left and she insisted it was just the summer heat. Even in the dead of winter,” Jack explained and Brock wondered why he never noticed that before. He probably also assumed her blushes were weather related. Then later, she was always with that fiancé of hers and he assumed her blushes had been for that noddy.

“I worry she’ll refuse me because…because of my face,” Brock admitted with a sigh, shoulders falling as the horrified reactions of the _ton_ upon first seeing his scars flashed through his mind’s eye.

“No. She’d never. She’s not like those vain debutants or hollow haut monde. Darcy’s got more substance than that,” Jack assured him. “Though, she may very well say no, based on other reasons. The two of you hardly know each other. What, with all the stuttering and blundering of your greetings to each other over the years. Perhaps one could call it a friendly acquaintance but you’ve never spent much prolonged time with her.”

“That is the other issue,” Brock grimaced. “If she is set on her decision for Mr. Hugh, then I may have some difficulty changing her mind on such short notice.”

“Don’t be too discouraged. There’s still more spark between the two of you than her and poor, old Mr. Hugh,” Jack said and the assertion gave Brock more hope. “Clearly, the two of you should become more familiar with one another before either of you can make an informed decision on marriage. How about you join us for a dinner party? We had one planned this Saturday. Mostly for Darcy’s friends but she gave me chance to invite who I wished. A few of the men from my battalion will be joining. It’ll be the best chance for you to try and convince her that a courtship to you would be worth her time. And I’m sure the men will be more than happy to see you again.”

“Delightful,” Brock said, voice flat. While he didn’t mind spending time with Darcy, he didn’t much like trying to vie for her attention with so many others. Still, needs must. He would just have to pull out his Earl charm, once again. It was a little dusty but if he made a complete arse of himself, then he could drink away his troubles with Jack’s whiskey and old cell mates. At least, there’d be guaranteed good conversation to try and distract him from his sorrows.

“You know, I think you stand the chance to make her a good husband and she a good wife to you. I just hope you don’t spend too much time in the Brooks’s betting books once you’re married,” Jack said cryptically and it took a moment before Brock groaned in embarrassment.

“How do you know about that? I thought you’ve been locked up here and refusing company,” Brock grumbled. He’d blissfully forgotten that stupid bet until now.

“I have a few ears dotted about London. I like to keep up to date, even if society has forgotten me. Given that I know your character, I assumed this was something Sefton goaded you into,” Jack said with a nod in Brock’s direction.

“You would be correct. The man is utterly ridiculous and vile. I’d hoped to avoid him but he sidled up to me the moment he saw me at Brooks’s.”

“So, will I have to worry about you seducing wildly inappropriate ladies who set the _ton_ on their ear when you court my sister?” Jack asked, clearly enjoying Brock’s mortification too much. “I might take back my blessing if such is the case.”

“No, you will not,” Brock promised, “In fact, I hadn’t even intended to seduce this Lady M or whatever her name is supposed to be. I planned on finding her, telling her of Sefton’s abhorrent ways and have her kick him in his nutmegs. I keep my horse and if we’re lucky, Sefton is unable to sire heirs.”

“Hmm,” Jack hummed noncommittally. “Be careful. I hear word that this Lady M is quite the charmer. She may lead you astray before you get a chance to woo Darcy. Then again, I also heard she punched Sefton in the eye, so she may not be as delightful as foretold.”

“If she punched Sefton then I’m sure hearing about his duplicitous intentions will go in my favour to end this farce, sooner rather than later.”

“Just don’t let Darcy hear about it. Though, she tells me that she’s met Lady M a few times through Loki. Supposedly, the woman was interested in joining the Learned Ladies. So, if you do talk to Lady M, I suggest you make sure you look like a saint. Word may get back to Darcy whether you like it or not.”

“Thank you for the advice,” Brock lifted his glass in thanks and let out a long breath. He decided to let go of the fact that the company Darcy kept was more…colourful nowadays. Again, not that Brock wanted a submissive wife but he couldn’t help but be concerned that she needed a bit of extra help to keep herself safe. Or possibly out of trouble. Lady Bartholomew’s ball was tomorrow night. If he played his cards right, he could get out of this ridiculous bet early, get a decent night’s sleep and be in a clear state of mind for Darcy the following evening. Then again, if life had taught Brock anything, it was that good things did not come easy. Not even for the peerage, at times. Very rarely for him.

“Now, are you quite done insulting every decision I have tried to make to better my sister’s life?” Jack asked, finishing off his glass of whiskey and thumping the glass down on his desk.

“So far, yes. I’ll let you know if I have any other opinions on the matter,” Brock said, earning a more carefree laugh from Jack.

“You’re going to be a rather trying brother-in-law,” Jack said with a slight hum. “I think I’m on the fence on whether I want Darcy to say yes to you or for her to slam the door behind you. The second one would be much more amusing.”

“Would you rather have me or grandfather Hugh as a bother-in-law?” Brock said and that sobered Jack up.

“Well, the man has a mind for business. I suppose I could do worse,” Jack mused sincerely but the twinkling in his eyes assured Brock that his choice was clear. Even if Brock bumbled his words on occasion, he was still the preferred gentleman to win. As they refilled their glasses and moved on to safer topics, Brock swallowed back the fear that Darcy wouldn’t feel the same way. At every scratch at his scars, he tried to ignore the stone sitting in his gut.


	5. A Learned Lady's Decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments and kudos! ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜🖤🤍🎩

The Learned Ladies of London Club was growing in numbers. Soon, they may have to find a new location for their meetings besides Jane’s sitting room. Their first couple of months consisting of meetings every fortnight, only ever saw numbers up to 6. Now, they were encroaching on 20. Clearly, a success and indication that despite what the male population tended to insist, intelligent women were to be found in all walks of life, ages and backgrounds. Also, that if properly encouraged, they could flourish in their arts, sciences or whatever studies they wished to engage in. Darcy could not be prouder. Out of all the terrible things life threw her way, she could always say she had encouraged great women to achieve even greater things.

They were just ending a meeting on Miss Elizabeth Ross’s latest studies in microscopy. As always, many of the members broke into little groups to either further discuss the topic or simply gossip. Others bid their farewells. Adele brought an excited Mr. Boothby back into the room, since he’d been exiled from the meetings after once eating an entire tray of jam tartlets. The poor thing had been sick after and Jane rather put out as she hadn’t a chance to try the tartlets. Once he got his ear scratches from Darcy, he trotted straight to the other women who were sure to spoil him with attention.

While the low hum of excited chatter filled the room, Darcy made her way to the bowl they kept on one of the side tables. It was filled with suggestions of future topics and the names of those who wished to present. Darcy and Jane did their best to remain impartial and fair when picking future topics. Also, to ensure the one suggesting the topic capable of filling the hour or if they needed assistance. Normally, they picked the topics blindfolded in front of all, but with the growing number of members, everyone agreed that topics should be presented with a draft first. So, Darcy and Jane would look through the suggestions and set up a time to meet with everyone to further discuss it. By the looks of things, they would have enough topics to fill the year.

“So, do you have your night of debauchery all planned out?” A sinfully wicked voice whispered in Darcy’s ear. She recognised it at once as Natalia Romanova. Though, to her close friends, she preferred Nat or Natasha, over her stage name.

“Shush, you mustn’t let anyone overhear,” Darcy urged in a whisper, setting down the suggestion bowl, taking Nat’s hands in her own and dragging her to an unoccupied corner. The redhead looked thoroughly amused.

“Now is not the time to become modest,” Nat clucked. There were very few people that knew of Lady Mischief’s secret identity. The Russian ballet dancer being one of them. In fact, she’d been the one to help Darcy create her mystique as well as how to keep her true identity hidden. Although Natasha was a famed ballet dancer, it was clear she had another set of talents that Darcy was, at times, afraid to inquire after. Many female performers unfortunately had to supplement their income by selling their favours. Natasha had been able to avoid that even though she were not a prominently cast ballet dancer. Darcy was certain the woman partook in potentially more dangerous feats. She and Jane had settled upon espionage. That aside, she was a proponent of free love and was very excited that Darcy wished to explore it.

“I’m not being modest. I’m protecting my identity,” Darcy scolded. “It wouldn’t do to bandy about my business. Particularly this business. Who knows who might put things together?”

“Have you picked a man, yet?” Nat asked impatiently, crossing her arms and offering a rather irritating smirk. Darcy looked around them to ensure everyone was too busy with their own conversations to be successfully eavesdropping. Nat let out a snort of laughter.

“Yes,” Darcy said so quietly that Nat leaned in closer. “Lord Hutton.”

“Really?” Nat scoffed, curling her lip and wrinkling her nose and she stepped back. She looked like she’d been offered vinegar for wine.

Darcy let out a puff of air. This was ridiculous. “Don’t be like that. Loki and Adele were doing the same thing. He adores Lady M. What more could I ask for?”

“For once, Loki and I agree. Having a man adore you is all good and well when looking for a pliable husband,” said Nat, rolling her eyes and speaking as if Darcy were a young, innocent child. Which, she supposed she still was in some ways. “For something like this, you want a man more…experienced in the art of love. In the art of giving it, not just taking. Also, one who is clean, if you understand my meaning. I don’t trust Hutton’s fingernails. Doesn’t keep them as trim as he should. A good indicator for a suitable bedfellow. I could find an appropriate man for you. One who will make your toes curl.”

There it was again. The idea of toe curling. Surly, it wasn’t the only indication of a good bedfellow. Toe curling and trim fingernails? Still, Nat’s offer was somewhat tempting. She knew more men than Darcy. Besides, Nat was a very good judge of character. At least, when it came to matching. Just before the meeting, Nat had suggested Darcy watch the way Ms. Grace Mallory and Mr. Hugh interacted. It had been clear to Darcy that the widow held quite a flame for the man. Also, Mr. Hugh had smiled in a way she’d never seen him do before at a comment of Ms. Mallory. If Darcy hadn’t been questioning his offer, she would be now. In fact, she’d already decided to tell Mr. Hugh that she was not the right woman for him. That perhaps, he needed to reconsider his vow that he’d never stray from his deceased wife and happiness was closer than he realised.

Tapping her lip, Darcy narrowed her gaze on the redhead. They were both attending Lady Bartholomew’s ball tonight. They were in fact, getting ready together at Jane’s (much to Jane’s consternation as she did not approve of Darcy’s masked adventures or having to watch Mr. Boothby since Thor now wanted a pug of his own).

“I’ve already a list of men in mind. We can discuss them tonight and I will slyly introduce you to them at the ball. You can make up your mind then. If you don’t like any of them, then none will be the wiser. Besides, wouldn’t it be better to choose a man you may never see again? If you pick Hutton, you will likely run into him after the fact and it will be terribly awkward for a number of reasons. He seems like a man to woefully and loudly pine.”

“I…suppose it wouldn’t hurt to discuss what manner of men you have in mind,” Darcy acknowledged and Natasha grinned like a cat with a mouse in her claws. For a second, Darcy almost recanted immediately. But it didn’t hurt to listen. She could end up saying no to all of them or maybe one was the right man for her. And Nat was on the mark about Hutton being a woeful piner. He was a sweet man but at times, his winding poetic compliments got a bit grating. Loki was certain the man paid a poet to write them up.

Darcy hadn’t given much thought to what would happen after the…deflowering, as she assumed she would want nothing to do with the man once the night passed. Still, Nat’s advice thus far, had been most advantageous in keeping Lady M exciting and a secret. Surely, she wouldn’t steer Darcy wrong, now. Even though Loki and Nat were not at all fond of each other, the best advice on life should be gleaned from numerous sources before deciding upon the most appropriate course. Time with the Learned Ladies taught Darcy that.

* * *

Although one tried to be fashionably late to balls, the distance of their location made it necessary to make use of the fading daylight. Lady Bartholomew hosted the event at a large, sprawling estate, just outside of London. No one wanted their horses to misstep in the dark and delay their arrival. Also, Lady Bartholomew did not offer rooms to all invited, only the most privileged. Many other party goers chose to arrive at dusk, then left at dawn to return to London. For Darcy and Natasha, who’d escaped out of the back of Jane’s house to avoid any detection of gossip mongers, they still had some time to spare as they rode in Nat’s unmarked carriage.

Sitting across from Darcy in the carriage, Nat chose to dress rather scandalously as a dandy. She filled out the cream waistcoat, blue tailcoat and mustard trousers much better than any dandy Darcy had ever seen. The cut of her outfit did not seek to hide Natasha’s true sex, rather to cup her curves. With her hessian boots, cravat, top hat and cane, she seemed rather comfortable in the gentleman’s outfit. Darcy almost envied her. Although her dress was nothing too complicated, her wings would make it cumbersome to move around the ballroom. They lay next to her on the carriage bench, waiting to be hooked onto the back of her dress. A whimsical addition to her outfit from Nat. Made of thin wire and a sheer white muslin, glass teardrop pearls dotted the edge of the wings. They went rather well with her dress.

The silver and ivory dress would likely be Darcy’s favourite worn in her life. It was a gift from Loki and she cherished it. The masterpiece was primarily made of a light grey net fabric over silver muslin. With a fashionable high waist and lightly puffed shoulders, it also had late Renaissance influences with puffs at the elbows and a forepart revealing an ivory underskirt. Leaves and glass pearls were embroidered along her décolletage, trailing further down the rest of the dress with flowers, right to the hem. There was also a longer train on this dress and she’d have to remember to watch out for feet potentially trampling the delicate fabric.

A silver half face mask hid her identity. There were also strands of glass pearls throughout her hair. She’d opted to not wear any other jewellery as she thought the dress was extravagant enough on its own. She also did not wear her black wig usually donned on her nights as Lady M. When she saw her reflection in the looking glass after dressing, Darcy truly felt like a fairy. Even Jane, who’d not wanted Darcy to go out tonight, admitted she had the appearance of just walking out of a Botticelli masterpiece with her artfully tousled and braided hair.

Natasha begun to list the potential men and their attributes, counting them off on her fingers. “There’s Mr. John Keets. Not to be confused with the poet. He’s looking for a new mistress and always keeps them in a lavish lifestyle. Quite handsome. Blonde and blue eyes, sharp like glass. A bit of a biter though, I hear.”

“Oh…is that a good thing?” Darcy asked, uncertain. She hadn’t realised that biting was something to consider. Then again, when you kissed…mouths were involved. But surely that was only lips and not teeth? Perhaps she should have asked around a bit more. No bother, Nat would just have to explain.

“Depends on if you don’t mind a nibble or two,” Nat said with a wink, not really offering much of an explanation.

“Well, I don’t know what I like. That’s the whole point of this,” Darcy said with an impatient huff. “And I am not looking to be a mistress…I think.”

“Best to be careful with those sort of promises,” Nat warned, tapping her nose and nodding. “When a man pays for your livelihood, he feels as if he owns you completely. That power can twist him and it may manifest in unpleasant ways.”

“That sounds dreadful and not at all what I am hoping for,” Darcy said with a pout.

“Just a fair warning,” Nat offered a small shrug. “Who knows what a man might offer in the throes of lust. It tends to be a promise they can only partially keep. Best to remember that long as you do not take too much at first and offer just a little, he is under your power. Make him feel as if you have something that only you can give him and he will go crazy for you.”

“I want him to…pluck my flower, as it were,” Darcy said, blushing a little at the thought since it was likely to happen tonight. Little flutters set off in her stomach, every so often, when she thought about it. “Must I engage in some sordid power play?”

“Life is a sordid power play. Men have all the power, or at least they believe they do,” Nat leaned forward, wagging a finger as if she were a mother hen imparting wise words to be heeded. “But, a woman holds greater power over him, if she just knows how to lay the cards. Remember what I told you about mystery?”

“That men long to unravel a mystery and that you should reveal as little as possible. Let them try to work out the rest for eternity,” Darcy repeated, knowing the lesson well, in addition to how successful it proved to be thus far. It wasn’t just men. The entire _ton_ was dying to know the true identify of Lady M. “Surely for _this_ thing, I can reveal more truth. Like who I am? Or at least my face, as I highly doubt anyone will actually recognise me. It just feels like lying if I didn’t.”

“Seduction isn’t truth. It’s satisfying a man’s imagination. This isn’t a wedding night between childhood lovers,” Nat insisted, though there seemed to be a bit of unusual longing in her scoff. “Besides, Lady Bartholomew’s Masquerade isn’t a time for truth. It’s for masked wantonness. If you listen to my advice and play the game, you will be swept away in the thrill. That’s much better than stumbling but kind attempts at wooing in the marriage bed.”

“I can’t help but wish for a meeting between caring lovers,” Darcy mumbled. “It’s why I thought Hutton might be a good match. Surely, there is a man your list that is…kind? Even if he did hold all the cards?”

“Hmm, there’s Mr. Eric Martin,” said Nat, rubbing her chin. “Run of the mill handsomeness, though, if he realizes you’re a virgin, he may stop out of principle.”

“Well, he sounds nicer,” Darcy admitted, sitting up with interest. “But I wouldn’t want him to stop…unless I asked him to.”

“I know some men that quite delight in the…how do you put it? The deflowering of virgins,” Nat said, clearly thinking Darcy’s choice of words rather adorable, “but I wouldn’t suggest them. Rather unseemly tastes to match.”

“Oh, dash it all,” Darcy let out a small wail. “There’s simply no one.”

Nat hummed, tapping the silver top of her cane and staring at Darcy with an intensity she’d become used to. “The masks will stay on for the act…most likely?”

“Mine will be, at the very least,” Darcy nodded mornfully. When it came down to it, she couldn’t risk her identity to be known or even allow clues to it. Especially if she were to sleep with a stranger. Couldn’t trust a man she didn’t know with her identity. It was one of the reasons why she did not wear her wig. Since her mask’s ribbons were braided into her real hair, it would be less likely to fall askew during more...rigorous activities. 

“In that case, you wouldn’t mind if he’s a bit…rough looking?” Nat asked, lips pursed.

“Beauty isn’t always an indication of someone’s temperament. As much as the _ton_ likes to pretend it is,” Darcy said, knowing she sounded a bit like she was reciting a sermon. She’d long since learned the lesson that the utmost treachery might lie behind a beautiful face and those that lacked could be the kindest to walk the earth.

“Well, I wasn’t going to suggest this at first...it could get higgledy-piggledy,” Nat trailed off and Darcy leaned forward, waiting to hear the name. “But then again, Adele did whisper a few things in my ear in her plea to get you off the idea of Lord Hutton.”

“Will I be entirely offended by what you’re about to suggest?” asked Darcy, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“There’s a bit of a rumour…though I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Nat mumbled, clearly talking more to herself than Darcy. Still, Darcy’s curiosity was certainly piqued.

“What kind of rumour?”

“Oh, the silly sort,” Nat waved her hand dismissively and Darcy was sure she wasn’t getting the whole story tonight. Nat mumbled to herself again, though Darcy had trouble understanding her. It sounded Russian. A sure sign that Natasha was thinking aloud. But, Darcy was certain she heard ‘Lord Sefton’ amongst the Russian and a vehement denial was on the tip of her tongue. It died at Nat’s next sentence. “What about Lord Brock Rumlow?”

“Not in…w-what? I mean, that is, why would you suggest him? That’s…that’s preposterous!” Darcy tried to let out a laugh but it was a strangled sound. Her neck and face heated up and she opened her fan desperately for air.

“Adele suggested he may be a welcome option,” said Nat, lifting one shoulder up in a shrug.

“Whatever Adele said was a ridiculous invention,” Darcy insisted, hiding the bottom, unmasked part of her face which was probably red, even in the dim light. 

“A bold thing to assume you know all that Adele told me,” Nat said, quirking her head and smiling.

“Then…” Darcy trailed off, knowing she was woefully unmatched in the art of duplicity. With a sigh, she closed her fan. “What did she tell you?”

“Only that you charmed him with your sweet, innocent thanks of his brave actions. That he wanted you to call him Brock,” Nat whispered, as if it were the most clandestine act of the year. “Scandalously improper, isn’t it?”

“I did nothing of the sort and his request was just because he sees Jack and me as close acquaintances,” Darcy waved the insinuation off with her fan. “He’s only ever saw me as Jack’s troubling little sister. And I always embarrass myself in front of him. He’s never seen me as…as a charming beauty.”

“Yet, you wish him to see you as more?” Nat asked lightly, easily catching onto Darcy’s forlorn tone.

“I…” began Darcy, eventually shaking her head and looking out beyond the curtain to see the streets and buildings blurring by in the dimming light. She considered her answer. There wasn’t much shame in admitting the truth, was there? Nat was not one to judge. In fact, she seemed to always delight in Darcy’s wild stories as Lady M or simply as clumsy Darcy. “Don’t all women wish to be seen so by a handsome man? Mine is no different a wish than every other woman that’s set eyes upon him.”

“Then this is perfect,” Nat set her cane on her knees and clapped her hands in delight. “If he only sees you as his friend’s little sister, come to him tonight as the beautiful goddess you truly are. Before his scars, I hear he was a rather talented lover. Never kept a mistress long but they all pined deeply after him.”

“His scars mean nothing on his character. He’s done a great service to our country and to my family,” Darcy said, feeling oddly protective of Brock. Such horrid things had been said in the papers already and he didn’t deserve an ounce of it. “I don’t think his scars change who he is or what he can do. Then again, I suppose I don’t have any knowledge of his bed skills and how scars could affect that ability.” 

“Very true,” conceded Nat. “Rest assured, if it’s just scars on his face, I doubt it affected much of his stamina. He’s also on the market for a new mistress. I think tonight, he wouldn’t mind being complimented on his service to our country by an enchanting fairy.”

“Looking for a mistress? Really?” Darcy frowned. She knew it was a common practice but it was still disappointing to hear. Which was silly. Did she really think upon his return from the war that he’d be itching for a wife and that it would ever be her? Perhaps she should try and…grasp what she could while she still had the chance.

“Yes, but aren’t most men? It shouldn’t lower your esteem of him. Take it simply as an indication that he is…” Nat trailed off, waving her hand in a small circular motion as she searched for a gentler metaphor. “Let’s say, open for auditions. Meaning, you get to live a dream you’ve held for how long? Remember my advice and you may even be able to ensnare him in a way you’d never be able to as the girl he thinks you to be. Show him the women you truly are and he’ll be panting after you.”

At first, Darcy wanted to insist that it was a ridiculous thought. How it would never work. Yet…it was a tempting offer. Start fresh with Brock and perhaps a dream she’d held onto would be realized. A lowly squire’s daughter could only pray for the chance at becoming an Earl’s wife- one now likely to gain a Dukedom for his gallantry in the name of England. Darcy learned long ago that prayers were seldom answered. Jack’s return to life was the one miracle granted to her and one that she’d not trade in. No. Darcy would not likely ever become the wife of a high titled man.

But…perhaps she could be content with one night as a mistress?

Leaning back into her bench seat and tapping the cane on her lap, Nat watched Darcy like a lion studying its prey. Her eyebrow quirked when she realised Darcy was earnestly considering the possible match. “I will point out some of the men to you tonight but will give the letter of invitation to whoever you decide upon. You’ve wiles to content with. Never forget that. I think any man would gladly fall at your feet, if you tried. Even Lord Rumlow.”

“He prefers Brock,” Darcy said without thought, correcting Nat with his Christian name. When Nat raised her brow in question, Darcy shook her head and looked out the window. She could feel Nat’s stare but after a few moments, Nat went back to describing all the men she knew who would likely be in attendance and their more unseemly attributes. Yet, no matter what Adonis was mentioned, Darcy could not get Brock out of her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re interested, these inspired Darcy’s outfit. I did waaaay too much research for it…(who spends half an hour researching how fake pearls are made in the Regency era? This goober.)
> 
> Darcy’s dress (the fairy dress from Ever After, which is so freaking gorg): http://www.everaftercostumes.com/fashioninfilm9.shtml  
I imagined the wings to be made like the large, standing ruff of Elizabethan times, nicely shown in this dress: https://tudorcostume.tumblr.com/post/24776393509/elizabeth-is-black-gown-the-lost-colony-at#notes  
Also, hair and general aura inspo from this Botticelli painting, even if it’s argued it may not be by him. A few of his paintings with women show some braid skills: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portrait_of_a_Young_Woman_(Botticelli,_Frankfurt)


	6. A Fay's Enchanting Spell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful comments and kudos! ❤️🧡💛💚💙🖤🤍🧚🦹🏻

The ball was proving to be a tired affair. Had Brock not set his resolve on marriage to Darcy, he might have found enjoyment this evening. Even he could admit that he would feel a bit better after an evening’s entertainment with a woman of looser morals. Quite frankly, he’d already been wound very taut from his short stretch of public events. Having a beauty in his arms might loosen the tension in his neck but it could also cause a detriment to his goal of wooing and courting Darcy Lewis. Brock was determined that this began a new chapter in his life and did not want to fall back on old habits of using and discarding women in fear of their attachment, as well as boredom on his part. That path led to shrewish jealousy and trouble for him.

Nay, he would not seek out a woman and lift up her skirts. The only woman he’d seek out tonight was Lady M and that was simply to warn her of Sefton’s ill intentions. Then, at some point much later than he preferred, he’d ride home and leave all this behind him.

The only hitch in this sound plot was that said lady had yet to appear. Unfortunately, this meant the only thing he could do at the present moment, was listen to Hutton and Sefton blather on as they pushed their way through the crowds. Bodies swelled in the ballroom, some trying to dance, others loudly and clumsily flirting with one another. Many more were seeking out dark corners. Scores of women wore dampened skirts and low cut décolletages, whereas their male partners wore open leers. While masquerade balls were known to foster lecherous behaviour even in the most innocent of intentions, this bacchanalian enthusiasm for pleasure completely unleashed the depravity hidden under the thin veneer of the Haut Monde. 

There were more in attendance than he’d anticipated. From his estimate, possibly 200 and more still wandered through the entrance. Not an intimate affair for a plucky rogue, as he originally imagined. Either way, he had to admit that this was a smaller gathering than many of the crushes preferred by the _ton_. For those here to enjoy the more carnal indulgences, there would also be enough of a variety to choose from. Finding a private space for tupping was likely a difficult feat but perhaps for some, that was an added thrill.

The décor of the estate certainly encouraged such actions. Sugar sculptures and bronze statues depicting lovers in agonizing pleasure were found all through the rooms. Even the lighting varied from room to room, with the gambling room providing the most visibility, as that was the only room where lust was not the prerogative of many rooted there. The ballroom was the second best lit but the rest of the rooms Brock visited had far fewer candles burning. Enough footstools, pillows, cushions and coverlets scatted around the floors, telling him such items were there on purpose. Long shadows and dark corners ruled the lust filled haven. Tripping was an unforeseen hazard and Brock had almost done so over several couples and a ghastly statue of a satyr copulating with a nymph. An attempt to conjure the _Midsummer Night’s Dream_ forest was done through poorly located potted plants and floral garlands. Everything was just a bit much for his tastes. He had a feeling Lady Bartholomew thought her decorative flair gave it all a sophisticated air but it looked more like a cheap and overcrowded brothel.

The sun set quite some time ago and Brock grimly realized Lady M preferred to be ‘fashionably late’. A habit favoured by many but it interfered with Brock’s plans. He worried he would soon have to accept the futility of his hopes to ride back into London. While there was a full moon, it had proved to be a cloudy night. At the very least, he’d need a lantern and that would slow his progress on a mount. Letting out a sigh that sounded more petulant than he’d wish to admit, Brock turned away from the exuberant crowd and listened into the conversation he’d mostly been ignoring. Most of their Brooks’ group had now dispersed, leaving the 3 key to the bet. 

“Y’know Hutton, I’m startin’ to s’pect you don’t know her quite as well as you say,” Sefton accused, voice slurred and a sway over taking his frame. It seemed his numerous champagne glasses were affecting him in Brock’s favour. Yet, it would mean nothing if they could not find Lady M. Brock’s patience was wearing thinner than he thought possible. Sefton had arrived at the ball wearing a field soldier’s regalia. Brock wanted to rip the costume off the unworthy man’s shoulders and might do so, if he had to spend another hour in Sefton’s belligerent company.

“I’m insulted, sir. Do you think I wish to be stuck by you two all night, hearing you say deplorable slanders about her character? I’ve already had two women wink at me and another ask to meet in the gardens,” Hutton wined, swinging about his fishing pole and almost knocking off a woman’s turban. He’d arrived dressed as a fishmonger but Brock was certain he’d missed the mark slightly, since the only addition to his normal attire had been the fishing pole. It didn’t strike anyone else as odd, though. The attendees ranged in how polished their costumes were. Some put in little effort while others brought their characters to life. He even saw a man walking around dressed as a convincing strip of bacon, so perhaps sensuality was not at the forefront of all minds.

Brock was somewhere in the middle with his pirate costume. His dirty white shirt cut so a V of skin peaked through. His tall black boots were worn but comfortable. One of his sisters’ crimson scarves was tied around his waist and a large belt fitted lower on his hips. The cutlass at his belt was not sharpened to a fine point but still could do a great deal of harm if he wanted. His tricorn hat was a cheap thing bought from a store selling masquerade items. The black domino cape around his shoulders that matched is trousers, cost significantly more. Finally, he’d opted for only an eye patch to wear instead of a mask. At first, he’d planned to don a mask that covered his scars but figured this was the one night that perhaps the mutilation would suit his outfit. Besides, it wasn’t like he was looking to impress anyone here.

“I’m going to get some fresh air. I’ll be back soon,” Brock told the two bickering men.

“If you’re going to get some air, I shall join you,” Hutton announced, clearly thinking about the buxom milkmaid who’d propositioned him. Brock let out a haggard sigh at the prospect of the pair following him and ruining his bid for peace and quiet.

“Nonsense, if he wants to risk losin’, let ‘im!” Sefton shouted, punctuating his sentence with a hiccup. “If you go out and I spot ‘er first, I win!”

“You’re sloshed Sefton. I’d like to see you try and entice her before you spill your stomach contents on her hem,” Marius said dryly, appearing through the crowd and nibbling what may have been a jam tart. He’d left about half an hour ago, citing a need to eat. That he’d not left Brock to battle this ridiculous pretence all on his own, was a testament to the loyalty of the Rumlow family. His brother had decided upon a highway man’s costume and turned the heads of many women thus far. Much more agreeable distractions were abound for him, yet, here he was.

“I will see you at dawn!” Sefton spat, trying to take off his glove to slap Marius but the man was unable to get them off his fingers.

“If it is to treat you for the hangover you are surely to have, then yes, we shall meet around dawn,” Marius said with a short laugh.“How about we pause this bet for, let’s say, till the next hour?” offered Marius, taking out his pocket watch. Brock could see that gave them about 45 minutes. “Let us meet at the tables and if one of us does not make it, the bet will be off until another event.”

“I wouldn’t mind a short reprieve,” Hutton agreed, eyes darting towards the gardens.

“I think we all know my opinion,” Brock said, delighting in a real chance at quiet. Marius’ suggestion was both welcome and genius. Hutton didn’t strike as one to take long with his milk maiden and Sefton would already have made his way to the tables were he not stuck by this bet.

“Fine,” Sefton huffed. “But if you find me balls deep in Lady M, you lose.”

“Open with that line and she’ll likely rip them off first,” Brock sneered but the man was already staggering his way to the gambling tables while Hutton walked to the gardens.

“Well, at least you have some time to do what you wish,” Marius said, patting Brock on the shoulder. “Or whomever.”

“What I wish is for some peace and quiet,” Brock grunted, wiping the tart crumbs off his shoulder and offering his thanks. Even if Brock could not salvage the night, he wouldn’t wish the misery on his brother. He knew his brother did not wish to spend the entire evening tied to this bet and he’d honestly hoped it would all be done by now.

“If we’re lucky, he’ll be snoring under one of the tables in about an hour,” Marius predicted, causing Brock to let out a short bark of bitter laughter. If only he was so lucky. Sefton was a resilient drunk. Hopefully, if he wasn’t in a drunken sleep, he would at the very least have completely forgotten the bet in favour of more immediate pleasures. As the brothers bid a short farewell, Brock made his way towards the balcony, doing his best not to lose his temper at the numerous drunkards bumping into him.

* * *

The balcony proved to be less crowded than the ballroom, with only a few couples milling about. Everyone also appeared to be upright and fully clothed. There were still stone statues of writhing beauties dotted along the balustrade that made him frown. Finding an unoccupied space, Brock took in a deep breath. Lady Bartholomew hosting the ball at one of her homes outside of London, meant the air was a bit fresher than the city fog. A small concession for the night. It made him miss the countryside and also, Veneto.

Although he had not visited the continent for pleasure, he’d enjoyed reconnecting to his mother’s roots. To not see the world only as an Englishman, but with the passion and appreciation for life his mother insisted all her children shared because of her blood. Certainly, an admission that could not be shared with many, as to think any outside the English perspective had value, could be twisted into treasonous intentions. Thus was his continuing struggle to find his place back in society. Most of the time, England no longer felt like his home.

One gain of his time at war, was that he learned to appreciate the small pleasures gifted in the middle of danger. A long, uninterrupted ride on his horse. Delicious food that eventually highlighted an English fare’s blandness. The everyday vivacity of the common people around him. Even with the restrictions against masks limiting their use to a handful of specific festivals, the people of Venice put this ball to shame. Venetians knew how to throw a grand celebration. As he thought about the few pleasurable moments during his time away from England, Brock overheard a beleaguered voice.

“If I must watch Lord Moore eat another oyster, I may lose the contents of my stomach,” said a woman, causing her female companion to snicker. There was something about the contralto that he couldn’t quite place and yet he wanted to listen to it the rest of the night. It caused a stirring in his chest and…other regions, that he’d not expected to feel. Turning in search of the voice, his eyes found a beautiful fay-like creature standing a few metres away. The moon peaked out from the clouds at that very moment, causing her to shimmer in the light. The air left his lungs in a slow, shaky stream.

“I suppose I have to give you that one. The eye contact he gave to that Queen Elizabeth, during the act, was rather malapropos. If he’d done that to the real Virgin Queen, she’d have him hung and quartered,” said the companion, clearly a woman but dressed as a dandy in a domino mask. When he took a closer look, he noticed the red hair tied in a loose bun at her nape. Brock narrowed his eyes. There was something familiar about the two women but he couldn’t quite place it. Evidently, time away from the frontlines had dulled his mind.

“I fear I will have to take these wings off,” said the fay with the cutest little pout. “I’ve had five people bump into them already. Two of them were more than ready to fight me about how much space I’ve taken up. I almost slapped Lady Codsworth for trying to rip my hem. I think she was so surprised I gave a heated reprimand, that her shock was the only thing stopping her from replying with a blistering insult.”

At her confession, Brock smiled. Lady Codsworth was a handsy widow who enjoyed slandering beautiful innocents if she felt they were luring away her prey. Her trying to rip the fay’s dress, sounded about on par for the window’s behaviour and he was impressed the pretty miss had stood up to the rude bat. 

“Nonsense, they complete your ensemble,” said the female dandy, tapping one of the pearls along the wings’ edges. “Lady Codsworth hates all those prettier than her. She’d lash out at a dancing bear if she thought the creature was attracting more male attention than her. If anyone gives you any more trouble, I’ll see to them. Now, since Lord Moore is no longer an option, what about Mr. Henry Turin? He winked at you and acted all upstanding.”

“He is nice,” the fairy agreed reluctantly, wringing her hands. Brock frowned at what the dandy was suggesting. She likely referred to the Henry Turin he recently invested with. Given the event they were all attending, there was only one ‘option’ these women were discussing. A longer look at the fay and Brock concluded she was clearly more innocent than the other ball attendees. Something so…dear, just radiated off her. Too sweet and enchanting for Henry Turin. The man seemed moral enough but was rather boring. Not at all on par with the glittering fay. “But I don’t think I could…you know. With him. No, it doesn’t feel right. I fear that no one that has caught my eye. Your introductions have been for naught.”

“That’s only because one already has and you can’t think about anyone else,” her cross-dressing companion berated. Brock felt his shoulders tense. Who caught the fay’s eye?

“What does it matter? He doesn’t appear to be here. Perhaps he’s already found a willing mistress and swept her off her feet,” mourned the fay and Brock wanted to both beat and thank the man that left her unattached. The man was clearly a fool and didn’t deserve her. 

“He’s more likely just brooding at home,” her friend said with a scoff. Both Brock and the friend noticed the way the fay’s shoulders slumped and a tender sigh left her lips. The friend squeezed one of the fay’s shoulder. “I hate to see you so desolate. Why don’t you rest for a spell and I’ll get us a couple of glasses of champagne? At the very least, we can enjoy the fresh country air.” 

Once the dandy walked back into the ballroom, Brock risked stepping closer. The fay now leaned her hands on the balustrade, looking up at the night sky. For a moment, he considered just leaving her to her solitude but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to say _something_. She clearly was having a miserable time like him and he knew well enough that misery loved company, at times. “He’s a fool if he’s left you here.”

“I beg your pardon?” asked the fay, turning around with a frightened squeak. Her gloved hand clutched her chest and her eyes widened into saucers when she caught sight of Brock. The usual humility rushed through him when he remembered his scars. Except, the usual twist of disgust didn’t overtake her face, or at least, the bottom half of it he could see around her silver mask. No…she inhaled in exhilaration, not revulsion. Then sighed with such longing that Brock was sure he was imagining it. When Brock replied with a rusty but roguish smile, she offered a toothy and sincere grin before looking back up into the stars whistfully. As if she could just float up and stir the constellations with her delicate fingers. “A-are you always listening in on private conversations?”

“Conversations on balconies are not private. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way,” Brock warned. “So, will you tell me the name of his blackheart who has snubbed you? I feel as if I should take him up to snuff.”

“Why? Are you going to challenge him to a duel?” asked the fay, setting him with an enigmatic expression that the clouds covering the moon made even harder to discern.

“Perhaps,” Brock shrugged and the fay tilted her head slightly, narrowing her gaze on him. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if she was offended or just unamused. Eventually, he thought a flicker of mischief flashed across her face. Then she snorted in a most unladylike fashion. She covered her mouth and looked away.

“I’m sorry. It was just imagining it. It would be quite the sight to behold,” giggled the fay.

“I fear inquiring why it makes you break down into laughter, might offend my manly sensibilities,” Brock admitted, enjoying her refreshing composure. Normally, women simpered demurely in an attempt to ensnare him. They did not snort or grin in a wide, beaming manner.

“And I fear that asking if you often defend a stranger’s honour would reveal a trail of broken hearts,” the fay said softly, once she regained her composure.

“I have never before felt the need to challenge any man to a duel on behalf of a woman. You are the first,” Brock promised, leaning his back against the balustrade and trying to get a better look at her face. With her back to the ballroom and the moonlight fading in and out, long shadows distorted her profile. It still didn’t mask her loveliness. “Though, I wouldn’t mind knowing if the bewitching fairy has a name. If I am to die tomorrow at dawn, I’d love to have the correct woman’s name on my lips as I exhale my last breath.”

“I hardly believe with a tongue like that, you’ve not left a trail of hearts behind you,” the fay said and it sounded somewhat like a scold. Yet, Brock wanted to show her what his tongue could really do.

“If I’ve broken hearts, it was by no mal intention on my part. With a scarred face like mine, I think my days of easily charming women are long behind me,” Brock assured with a gritty tone and the fay frowned. “The ladies find me grotesque now.”

“Surely, you don’t think that of yourself?” she asked, oh so innocently. He held back the snort of derision he was about to let out.

“Perhaps the dim lighting is preventing you from noticing all my gruesome details.”

“All I see is a man, who for some reason, doesn’t see all his worth,” said the fay and her sincere words took Brock back. Unable to reply, he just opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. When he looked away from her and into the ballroom full of the vain, lustful _ton_, she continued. “You’ve done a great service to England and anyone who does not see that, is a fool. What do any of those people in there know of suffering? If their roast isn’t cooked the right way, then they’d break down in a fit, thinking they are the most unfortunate soul who ever lived. Leaving your self-worth to their standards will only leave you miserable. Believe me, not caring what they think, is quite liberating.”

At first, he didn’t reply. Instead, he wanted to soak in her words. So, he kept his gaze on the laughing crowd as he mulled her rather apt illustration of the Haut Monde. No, not many of the attendees tonight would know much of true suffering. What did they care of the poor, the broken and the scarred? She was right. His wishing for their stares of horror to turn back into those of past admiration, would not truly gain him happiness. Only empty joy. Brock was prouder of his time fighting for the Crown than he was of his escapades as a rogue. One was certainly more honourable than the other. Even if the rest of the world would disagree behind their fans. They sought for approval from their hard to please peers and it led to bitterness. He learned that the White Cliffs of Dover was not the end of the world. There was more to life than the _ton_. Finding one’s approval from within? Such a novel thought in some ways, yet it resonated deeply in his soul.

“I hope I’ve not spoken too out of turn,” the fay said and Brock shook his head, catching her gaze with a wink.

He spoke past the lump in his throat. “Not at all. It was impressively apt. You are quite wise. How did you know of my service to the Crown?” Brock asked. It was clear she knew more about him than he did about her. Had he met her before? Before his time in the continent when he’d been a massive fool who let such a wonderful woman slip unnoticed?

“You are Lord Rumlow. Are you not? I…I’ve read about you. Might have seen you at an event or two,” said the fay with a casual shrug and Brock knew she only told a partial truth. Still, he saw it as an open invitation to level the field.

“I am. I suppose my eyepatch does not do much to hide my identity. Though, now I think it’s only fair I get a name from you,” Brock pressed. Flirting with this cute little fairy was much more fun than trying to find some notorious society chit. He knew just a few minutes talking to this woman was worth a postponing of the bet this evening. Lady M could wait. He’d found much better company.

“My name?” the fay asked, chewing on her bottom lip and looking down at her hands. Then she looked up with a pleased smile. “You can call me Morgan.”

“As in, Morgan Le Fay?” Brock chuckled, knowing it wasn’t her real name. Yet, it suited her. And he couldn’t fault her for keeping her identity hidden. That’s what this night was made for.

“The very one. My other option was Mustardseed. Morgan sounds a bit more distinguished,” Morgan said and Brock laughed at the ridiculous ‘backup’ name she’d picked.

“I can barely hazard a guess as to why your second choice was Mustard.”

“_Mustardseed_,” corrected Morgan. “Clearly, you don’t know your Shakespeare. It’s the name of one of Tatiana’s fairy servants. From _Midsummer Night’s Dream_. Bestowed upon me by Lady Bartholomew, earlier this evening. She’s been renaming the other fairies at this ball with those ridiculous names to reinforce that she’s the only true Tatiana.”

“You can hardly blame me for not remembering that tiny detail from Shakespeare,” Brock insisted, unable to stop himself from taking one of her silken curls in between his thumb and forefinger. He tugged lightly on the strands of hair before letting it drop, enjoying how the move made her breath hitch. “Though, don’t tell Lady Bartholomew but I think her Midsummer theme has much to be desired. Her décor isn’t all that impressive and she doesn’t strike me much as a majestic fairy queen.”

“Oh, I promise to keep that to myself. She’d be rather put out if she heard your opinion. Might ban you from future events,” said Morgan with mock seriousness, trying and failing to hold back a smile. She looked down and started to reach out towards the scarf knot around his waist. Brock so desperately wanted to help her hand move the rest of the way.

“That would be a Godsend. Please tell her I’ve said most horrible things about her taste and style. It would save me the aggravation in future,” Brock said in a gravely tone, enjoying Morgan’s laughter. Like a soothing balm on his scars. Then he said something he never thought he’d ever willingly offer. “Would you…bless me with the next dance?”

“Really?” Morgan asked, turning her body around to face him. One of her wings smacked against the balustrade. Brock could see her eyes widen and mouth open slightly in shock. Though, out of the two of them, he was more shocked at himself. While he was often a forced dance partner for his sisters when practicing their steps, Brock was unenthusiastic about the art. He did not enjoy it and he did not ask women to dance, unless he was being required in some manner. To dance with a woman meant offering false hope for a marriage proposal- at least in his experience. He’d only danced in public a handful of times. The first had been early in his youth, before he realized how debutants interpreted his intentions. Then once with his fiancée when their engagement had been announced. The final time had been with Darcy Lewis, as a favour to her family, when it was clear she was not attracting many appropriate suiters.

He nearly took back his offer when he remembered Darcy. How he was supposed to be wooing her, not getting distracted by a fay-like women whose real name he didn’t even know. And…who wasn’t even fully paying attention to him. She was trying to suss out if any damage had been done to her wings.

“While I am grateful for your offer, I’m afraid my wings might prove a detriment to us and the other dancers,” Morgan frowned and it tugged at Brock’s heart. Even if he was torn, he wanted to remove that dejected look from her face forever. “Unless you want to risk me blinding others on the dancefloor by accidently poking them in the eye with these pearls.”

“I doubt you’d blind anyone but you may cause a nasty trip,” Brock said, pushing an errant curl behind her ear. He thought she leaned into the touch, for short a moment. “Though I warn you, I am rather rusty when it comes to dancing in public. I may be as much as a menace, if not more. I would cause more bodily harm than your dainty self.” A delighted laugh erupted from Morgan and the tugging of Brock’s heart eased somewhat. 

“Perhaps you should consider that in your next duel. You could try and dance your opponent to death if you’re such a monster on the ballroom floor,” teased Morgan and Brock grinned. The strings of the quartet began playing the next dance. A waltz. While scandalous, many of the ton secretly enjoyed it. It seemed rather appropriate that quite a few waltzes had been performed by the quartet this evening, when it usually was danced a couple of times at most at an event. When Brock looked up towards the entrance to the ballroom, he noticed that they were the only couple lingering on the balcony.

“We could always dance out here. There seems to be enough space to allow for my oafish feet and your delicate wings,” Brock suggested. Morgan followed his gaze around their settings and pursed her lips in thought. Eventually, she nodded and Brock let out a breath. He hadn’t realized he’d held it in.

They moved closer to the centre of the balcony. Due to the size and placement of her wings, it was difficult for him to place his arm around her lower waist but he somehow managed with a rather uncomfortable bend of his arm. They stood side by side, arms entwined and began to move in time with the music. A few steps forward and then a turn to face one another. Brock held her close to his body, closer than appropriate for even a waltz. He could see her ample chest rise and fall with heavy breaths. Their left hands rose above their hands to meet in the air as they slowly spun around the empty balcony. The music and crowd became a whisper in Brock’s ears as he focused on the fay in his arms.

She leaned in towards him and he anticipated a gentle kiss. Except, she turned her head away to keep her balance. Then, she’d only met his gaze for a few seconds before looking away throughout their dance. The scent of a mixed bouquet tickled his nose. He could not name any of the floral notes but for some reason, an ease to settled into his muscles. For the first time since returning from the warfront, Brock felt that elusive comfort of home he’d been desperately searching for but feared had disappeared forever.

Brock licked his lips and noticed her watching the movement. The tightness in his chest returned full force but this time, he knew exactly what would help ease it. He abruptly stopped and Morgan stumbled but he pulled her flush against his body to save her. When her mouth opened slightly, a question bubbling up, Brock took her lips in the kiss he craved.

At first, her body tensed against his, before melting into his touch. Her hand let go of his to grasp the side of his neck and pull him even closer. An endearing, yet also somehow sinful little moan escaped her. It caused her lips to vibrate slightly against his and he could feel a responding moan of his own rumble through his body. He placed a gentle hand on her chin and helped ease her mouth open just enough to dive in.

It was obvious to him that that she was not the most experienced kisser but she made up for it in enthusiasm. With gliding tongues and earnest moans, Brock tried to show her just how potent this intimate act could be. Never in his life had a kiss charged his entire body so. Down to his bones, he knew one kiss with her would never be enough. Perhaps not even a thousand would sate this new hunger. That should have been enough warning for him to stop this instant. If this fay knew her power over him, she could wreck complete havoc on his life, for he feared he’d do anything to ensure her happiness.

Instead of doing the rational thing and breaking their kiss, Brock let it linger and hoped that this enchanting creature was as kind at heart as her genuine smiles hinted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The waltz in the regency times is a little different than what we're used to today, as it was still kinda new. Below is a link to what it would have looked like around this time. The link should take you to the end of the vid where the full demonstration is. Still, I must warn you, quite saucy stuff.  
https://youtu.be/HjR5lKgS2Do?t=275


	7. A Pirate's Honour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your comments and kudos! ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜🖤🤍🎩

Darcy had never been kissed like this. As if she was a clear stream and this man wished to drink every drop of her. Except, the man was Brock Rumlow and Darcy was not a stream. She was a woman who was being kissed by the most honourable and handsomest man she’d ever met. A man who didn’t truly know who she was. Who’d likely push her away if he knew her identity, yet would so tenderly kiss a stranger. Alas, for Darcy, the kiss was bittersweet. It was also about to be horribly embarrassing for her, as her legs were close to giving out. Goodness, she’d never forgive herself if she swooned for the first time in her life during the most wonderful kiss she’d ever received. 

As if he could sense her distress, or perhaps it was the normal chain of action in a kiss this passionate, Brock wrapped an arm around her hips and pulled her against his body. She continued to dissolve into his body and he held her up. For surely, she _was_ about to swoon. Her head was light and a thousand fairies danced in her stomach.

When they broke apart, a little _whoosh_ of air left her lungs, then she gulped in a desperate breath. For she had only been a boring, unconscious creature until this moment and that mouthful was now the true inhalation of life. Her senses took in colour and light in a more vibrant hue, the fresh scent of night air with more relief and the gentle caress on her chin sent a thousand shivers down her spine. The world began to swirl but she focused on Brock’s eyes. She’d always admired the beautiful amber that shone when he lit with joy. In the moonlight, she could see sparkling gold and hunger. 

She bit her lip, stopping herself from blurting out she had a private room awaiting them upstairs. Natasha had warned her to not seem too easy. Men liked a bit of a chase. It got their blood pumping to have some anticipation building. Whatever that meant. Instead, she looked up at him in what she hoped was a coy manner and smiled sweetly. When his eyes narrowed slightly, she found the strength to step out of his hold and cleared her throat. The night had suddenly turned a bitter cold and she knew the only relief would be found back in his arms.

“With kisses like that, I can only believe that you have left a long trail of broken hearts,” Darcy breathed out. “If you insist otherwise, I know you are a liar. No gentleman uses his tongue like that.”

A pleased smirk twisted Brock’s lips and he appeared as if he wanted to say something utterly improper. Instead, he restrained himself and offered her a tiny, mocking bow.

“It is my duty to be a gentleman. I apologise profusely,” Brock said, not sounding one bit remorseful. Darcy let out a sharp laugh and covered her mouth. He looked to have a devil hiding in his eyes, for certain. But even the devil had to have some honeyed words and dashing looks to tempt so many into sin.

“I hear Lady Bartholomew’s gardens are beautiful this time of year,” Darcy blurted. “Would you be willing to escort me and take a turn about the grounds?”

“I also hear Lady Bartholomew’s gardens are full of degenerates this time of year,” Brock grumbled, lips twisting in disgust and Darcy’s heart sank at his clear dismissal of the request. “Ah…I do not wish to belittle your hopes but I doubt there’s much privacy to be sought in that maze. And I find myself the jealous sort tonight, so I would hate to share your attention with giggling couples hidden in bushes.”

“_Oh_,” Darcy intoned, chest and face heating at the suggestion in his words and the depth of intention in his gaze. Perhaps she should have offered her room first. A part of her worried that the longer he spent in her time, the sooner he’d work out who she really was. Time might be of the essence, tonight. She looked down at her now wringing hands. “I d-doubt we’d find much privacy in most of this home. Th-that is to say…I may know of a few spots unknown to most.”

“Is that so?” Brock asked smoothly, tapping a finger on her chin and raising up her face so she looked straight into his heated gaze. As a pant rose in her throat, he lay a gentle and chaste kiss on her lips. But were chaste kisses supposed to send delicious heat down into one’s nether regions? And did a woman of composure and grace chase after a man’s mouth after he broke away? Darcy shook her head and tried to remember the cult of mystique and poise she’d worked so hard to cultivate. 

“Yes. I have a private room. Actually. If you wish to join me,” Darcy admitted and she watched as Brock’s brow rose in surprise. For a frightening moment, she feared she’d moved too fast. His throat bobbed and he let out a shaky breath. Already, she’d made a muck up of the night. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and steadied on forward like a good English lady. Yet, her voice came out shrill and panicky. “I mean, should we really kid ourselves about what everyone is searching for this night? That is…unless you prefer more of a chase? My friend tells me some men like to act like cats and have their companions be the mice, though I’m not sure why. I didn’t think I’d like it but I could try-” 

Thankfully, her babble was cut short. She looked up in surprise when Brock took her hand and placed a kiss on her knuckles. Even through their gloves, she could feel his heat. He fixed her with smouldering determination. 

“But what do you want of tonight?” he hummed, smiling against her hand. The vibrations from his lips caused another shiver to run down her spine. Her wings fluttered at the movement. “If we weren’t surrounded by knaves and fille de joie, what would be your true heart’s desire?”

“I…I’d want you to join me in my room,” Darcy whispered, feeling her face heat up. She was surely an unbecoming shade of red. “I truly desire it. With all my heart.”

Her heart pounded in her head as she waited for Brock’s reply. She feared she had given too much away, that all the years of want were evident in her voice. That he’d think she were stark raving mad for her intense yearning. His eyes glittered with some emotion she couldn’t quite discern. Then, to her relief, he placed a feather light kiss on the pulse of her wrist.

“Then, nothing would make me happier. I am truly honoured, my lady,” Brock said, voice a gruff promise. Her eyes widened when the gravity of this moment struck her. For this would be the night she had dreamed of since she was but 14 and not yet aware of what took place between men and women. She used to imagine what it would be like for a kiss from Brock, when she first spied the friend Jack had made during his time away in London. Later, she knew she wanted more than a kiss, even if she weren’t quite sure what it was. Here she was, within the grasp of a long-held dream. When she had convinced herself it would be the highest folly to try and keep it crushed in her hands in an attempt to stop it from fluttering away.

“Well, then, I suppose we should make our way up,” Darcy suggested, a frantic laugh bubbling up from her chest. Somehow, she held it back and Brock offered her a serene nod in agreement. She considered the ballroom, heavy with jaded laughter. Had Natasha spotted Darcy kissing on the balcony and left her to her own devices for the rest of the night?

When Brock offered his elbow, she placed her hand in the crook and led him forward. They did their best to weave in and out of the couples displaying varying degrees of dishabille. It had become a menagerie of hedonism and she had to focus on the tips of her shoes at times, less she burn red from head to toe. What would she have done if she did not run into Brock this evening? Possibly hide from the grunts. She thought the night was to be sensuous. Instead, it was rather unbecoming to see so many in complete abandon and undress. Thank the heavens she had a room to escape to rather than being forced to be tossed about in this sea of writhing bodies. After this night, she’d never look at the _ton_ the same again. While Natasha and Loki had warned of the evening, she doubted anything could have prepared her for this. It was just so much more…gauche than what she imagined in her head.

Still, she had a goal and would not let her distaste for those around her get in the way. Acting ever the gentleman, Brock did not attempt to grab after her or squeeze any of her extremities like the other men in attendance so openly did to their companions. Along their journey, he grabbed a bottle of champagne and two coupe glasses with a wink. He also engaged her in small conversation, as if they had met in a mutual friend’s drawing room before supper and were discussing the weather. Thrills of anticipation ran through her body and yet, she still felt safe in his presence.

At the door of her room, she pulled a key from the pocket she made sure had been sown in her skirts and unlocked the door. This part of the large manor was significantly less occupied, though she could still hear the revelry echoing down the hall. Once behind closed doors, Darcy let out a tiny sigh of relief. As Brock set down the glasses on a table by the bed and began to open the bottle, Darcy locked the door.

“Plan to lock me in and have your way with me, is that it?” Brock teased. Darcy turned from the door to find him pouring champagne with an amused, sly look on this face. He looked almost menacing in the dark room, which was only lit by dying embers in the fireplace. Despite herself, Darcy blushed, earning back the red hue that had been slowly disappearing once they’d escaped the crush outside. Needing to distract herself, she grabbed a candle off the vanity table and lit it with the embers, then began to light a few candles throughout the room.

“I have been warned guests still try their luck at the private rooms, even if they weren’t given a key,” Darcy explained primly as she walked between the candelabras, noting to herself that Lady Bartholomew must spend a fortune on candles alone. She made sure to light as little as she could without keeping them plunged in complete darkness. Brock grabbed the glasses and walked forward to her, raising a glass that she took with quiet thanks. “Also, that some in the private rooms quite enjoy this, so some guests are encouraged to be rather aggressive in their attempts.”

“Since you do not seem one who would wish for such a disruption, I pray that we do not have anyone banging down the door,” Brock said, raising his glass in cheers before taking a sip. “Then again, I have no intention to share you this night and would toss any persistent bounder out the window.” 

“Let us hope it does not come to that. A death would be quite the disappointing conclusion of our time together,” Darcy said, taking a slow slip and almost sneezing when the bubbles tickled her nose. She placed the key on the table next to the champagne bottle.

“It’s only the second floor. He might live,” Brock shrugged and Darcy swatted at him with a fan in her pocket. It earned her a large grin. Earlier in the evening, she thought she might try her luck at some clever fan flirting but it was soon clear to her that subtly was not to be had this night. No matter, she was not the best at the art. She’d once poked herself in the eye when trying to signal to Ian during their early courting days. Even then, he hadn’t noticed her injury.

“Perhaps, we should start with you helping me get these wings off. They are rather cumbersome,” Darcy said, setting down her champagne and fan. “I’m surprised I didn’t hit anyone with them on our trip to my chambers.”

“It’s because everyone was already lying down on the floor,” Brock chuckled, but set down his own glass and looked at the contraptions on her back, trying to get a better understanding of how they were fastened.

“I suppose there is that,” Darcy conceded, giving a short explanation of the corset under her dress and how it attached to the wings. Once he figured out how to slide them out, she let out a sigh of relief as the weight lifted. “Though, for a man who seems to scorn the…fervour of the guests around us, I am surprised you even attended the event.”

“Truth be told, I was supposed to meet someone here,” Brock said, voice low and gruff. Although it felt as if a knife had pierced through her heart, she still enjoyed the quality of his voice. What a fool she was. Of course, he had some attachment to another. Yet, he still chose to follow her to her room.

“Oh, I hope I am not interrupting or inserting myself into a lover’s spat,” Darcy tried to sound light and airy. Not at all as if she wanted to cry.

“No, nothing of the sort,” Brock assured her, stepping around to face her again. There was a serious furrow in his brow. He reached down and took one of her hands in his. “In fact, I rather prefer your distraction. I am…well, I hate to lie to you for some reason. So, I shan’t. I was dragged here to satisfy some fiend’s disgusting idea of a game.”

“I think this entire party is a disgusting idea of a game,” Darcy offered, flattered at his wish to keep no secrets between them. Then saddened when she remembered the huge secret she must from him. Still, she brightened when he laughed at her comment. 

“Fair observation,” Brock nodded. “Though, I must counter with my own curiosity over your presence, if we are of like mind on that.” 

“I will happily assuage your curiosity once you finish telling me of this fiend and why he’s here. Should I warn my friend of this scoundrel’s perversions?” Darcy asked, knowing full well Natasha could take care of herself.

“I would encourage you to warn everyone of this man’s perversions,” Brock said. “Lord Sefton is his name. I would suggest you stay away from him, if given the chance.”

“You need not concern yourself over my judgement on this matter. I already do my best to avoid him. Odious man, he is,” Darcy said, nose wrinkling at the thought of his horrid breath and clammy hands.

“And yet, he is a darling of the _ton_,” Brock let out a wary sigh.

“Unfortunate yes, but I think tonight shows the _ton_, while insisting it knows what true refinement and elegance is, wouldn’t truly know such things it if it sang a bawdy tune in front of them,” Darcy commiserated. “What foul machinations does Lord Sefton have planned that forced you through Lady Bartholomew’s doorstep?”

“He has his sights on a woman and I had intentions on warning her,” Brock said and Darcy’s brow rose, wondering if perhaps this woman still somehow won a piece of his heart when she’d so failed in the past. What else would account for him to brave such a long evening of displeasure?

“Oh? I would hate to cause the downfall of another because I stole a beau,” Darcy shrugged, turning away to pick up her glass on the and willing away the tears beginning to shine in her eyes. She took a long, slow sip and set the glass back down, finding she no longer had the stomach for the drink.

“Nothing of the sort. I’ve never met the woman. Don’t even know what she looks like. And much to my abysmal luck, she didn’t bother to show up,” Brock said blandly and Darcy felt tension ease from between her shoulders. “Either way, Sefton’s probably napping off a bottle of whiskey under a gaming table. She’d likely be safe from his clutches tonight, even if I hadn’t planned to intercept.”

“Sounds very gallant of you. May I ask this woman’s name? She must be lady luck herself to have such a dashing guardian angel,” asked Darcy, keeping her back on Brock and lightly tracing the rim of her glass.

“Lady Mischief is her preferred moniker,” Brock said. The moment the name left his lips, Darcy’s eyes widened and her jaw hung open. A shocked gasp caught in her throat and she was thankful that she was not facing him, in case he saw her face and put the pieces together. “But I assure you, I am far from dashing and am no guardian angel. In fact, I very much had my own terrible vested interest in warning her. I had hoped that she would be so angered by Sefton that I would get to watch her beat him. The man annoys me so much and I have so few diversions these days, that it would have been worth any discomfort I would otherwise experience this night.”

Darcy was not entirely sure what to make of this. Surely, Brock was here to meet a woman. While not a woman he cared for, a woman he liked well enough to tumble with. She wasn’t so naïve to ignore that it was an added boon of the evening, for any man. If rumours were to be believed, Brock was a very healthy lover of the female form. Any gentleman or successful seducer would not tell a woman that she just happened to be the first pretty enough thing in his sights to help pass the night. Although, he had been technically looking for _her_, it was simply to pass on a friendly warning. Which meant he would have found another woman’s arms, if fate hadn’t intervened. Either way, she made note to kick Sefton’s shins the next time she saw him. Whatever the lout was up to, especially if it involved his interest in her alter ego being caught in his clutches, would not bode well for her. She was certain. 

“Surely, if you wanted a fight, you could just spend some time at Gentleman Jack’s,” Darcy said. She could feel him take a few steps so that he was standing close to her back. A breath caught in her throat as she smelled a familiar sandalwood and leather musk.

“At the moment, all I want is you in my arms,” Brock murmured close to her ear. Her heart began to beat wildly in her chest. Although she wished to say something witty and charming, the entire English language seemed to have vanished from her brain. All she could understand was the warmth at her back and the way his breath tickled her neck. Then, he cleared his throat and stepped away. She gripped the edge of the table to steady herself.

“_Oh_?” Darcy managed to intone.

“Yes, however, I must admit my curiosity is currently overshadowing my lust,” Brock said lightly and she could hear the laughter in his note. The cad probably knew his effect on her was clearly enjoying making her head all muddled.

“Should I take that as a slight on my allure?” Darcy asked, finally turning back around to look at him. She tried to look coquettish but found she couldn’t breathe when she set eyes on him. He looked every part the terrifying pirate in the dim candlelight, flames in the fireplace smouldering behind him. Yet, she wasn’t scared in the slightest bit. There was still a warmth in his eyes and a small smile on his lips. He took her hand and slowly pulled off her glove. A quiver ran up her arm and her heart beat in her ears.

“Of course not,” Brock said in a low, steady voice. Tossing her glove onto the table behind her, he then took off both of his. Her gaze entranced by the sight. She shivered when he gripped her now naked hand in his, heat rolling off him into her.

“Then, ask me what you wish to know,” Darcy commanded, though she did not sound confident about it.

“Perhaps, I should start with the obvious,” began Brock and for a moment, Darcy thought he was going to ask her why the baby sister of his best friend ever thought it proper for her to attend an event such as this. She swallowed past a lump in her throat, waiting for censure. “Why would a pretty, innocent little fairy attend such a party when you clearly are uncomfortable with the wantonness consuming this estate?”

“Fairies are known for mischief and mayhem. Particularly their actions against humans. I don’t know if many would call them innocent for that alone,” Darcy said softly, her fear lessening when she saw no glimmer of recognition in his eyes. Her identity was still safe.

“And yet, Morgan, you are still an innocent. I can tell, don’t try to insist otherwise. I must warn you that I am not in the habit of deflowering virgins. That should be a gift left for your husband,” Brock said, a serious edge creeping into his tone. He stood taller, observing her closely. Did this mean he was not going to, as he so delicately put it, ‘deflower’ her? Or was he trying to absolve himself of blame for doing that very same thing?

“And yet here I am, quite the spinster, no husband with which to gift my only true function in society,” Darcy said, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. She tore her hand out of his grip. How was it that a woman’s worthiness always boiled down to what had or had not lay between her legs? It was absolutely maddening. A woman’s worth should lie in her mind and heart. If Brock did not see that, then it would shatter every fantasy and affection she ever held of him. Though disappointing, she supposed one shouldn’t hold too much stock on the male sex. Their actions and thoughts, as a whole, were rather discouraging. She kept her head held high, pursing her lips and narrowed her eyes on him.

“That doesn’t mean that in future, a man may not love you with all his being and despise me for taking away a special moment,” Brock said gently, carefully choosing his words.

“My fiancé left me behind to pursue a passion of botany and found a woman more suiting of his temperament during his travels,” Darcy said, watching Brock’s brow crease and his head quirk ever so slightly. As she continued to speak, she felt the anger rise in her chest. She stepped away from him, raising her hands up in frustration. While she was happy to not be the wife of Ian Boothby till death parted them, she still resented the lost time. “I idled away my youth waiting for him to return. Only to get a short apology for my troubles. The reason I attended this party was to take some of my life back in my hands. Although I am disgusted by the perversions of the _ton_, I still wanted to experience passion for myself, before I wither away entirely.” 

“Your fiancé was a fool to think any silly plant would ever be more bewitching than you,” Brock said sternly, trying to close the distance between them with the caution a man would use to approach a nervous horse. “You have every right to be angry at him and I understand your need to hold onto control with both hands and refuse to let go.”

There was a sincerity to his words that made Darcy’s shoulders slump. While one look at the strong, self-assured earl would not conjure images of a man so desperate to grip onto some sort of command, he talked as one who understood her feelings. When Darcy watched him with uncertainty, he continued. “Nothing would make me happier than to be a selfish bounder and have you all to myself tonight. Do not doubt that. But I have this terrible sense of honour that I must abide by.”

“And I have this terrible wish to be deflowered this evening,” Darcy shot back. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips at her blunt declaration. And then they stood there. Two souls with the same desire but warring morals, refusing to back down. It seemed discordant to her that the integrity she so admired in him as a man should also be a troublesome barrier in her wants for the evening. So, she decided to continue to take control of her life. Darcy raised on her toes and kissed him.


End file.
